


seal thy fate (the piece is moved)

by solitariusvirtus, tenten_d



Series: flight of the dragon [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, House Arryn, House Baratheon, House Dayne, House Frey - Freeform, House Lannister, House Martell, House Stark, House Targaryen, House Tully, House Tyrell, Meh, Seers, Wargs, and do be sure to have tissues at hand, greensight, you'll have to read to hear the rest of it...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:17:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 50
Words: 57,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1225930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenten_d/pseuds/tenten_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The realm has had peace for a brief winter and a full-blown summer. Yet danger lurks in the dark, the winds grown harsh and the weather is cooled. Not all is well in the Targaryen kingdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

Sansa sits by the window with her sewing materials now that Septa Mordane has left her for a short while. Jeyne talks about something of little consequence, and Sansa looks outside, down where the men are training. Cheeks aglow she watches the spar. Her younger sister’s rude snickers interrupt her. Sana’s head whirls around and she throws a glare to young Arya. “What has you so amused?” Her rude tone, one that she does not dare use with anyone but Arya, quietens Jeyne.

“At least I can speak around him without stuttering,” Arya taunts and then bolts out of the room without so much as a glance backwards. That is good, for Sansa looks to be in a rage at her sister’s words.

What makes it all worse is that Arya is not wrong on this. Sansa sighs and looks once more outside. Her eyes are drawn to Willas Tyrell as they often are. “Oh, Jeyne, I wish he would notice me.” It all started innocently enough, Sansa recounts. Willas came from the South to squire at Winterfell, and after being knighted he chose to stay on awhile longer. He is kind and gallant and he always seems to have a smile for Ned Stark’s daughters. And it is exactly that to bother Sansa. Willas makes no difference between herself and Arya or Jeyne. Indeed it seems that in his eyes all three are children still. “I am almost a woman grown, Jeyne. Why will he not look at me?”

“I am sure he does,” Jeyne tells her softly, giggling. “But you know Willas, he is nothing if not proper. Perhaps you ought to speak to your grandfather about this.” How silly a thought! And tell her grandfather what exactly? That she wishes her father’s former squire would give her more than a passing smile? “Do not fret, Sansa. Better yet, tell me again, is the King really coming here?”

“Aye, and he brings with him my aunt, Queen Lyanna, and Jon will he here too.” Sansa smiles knowingly at Jeyne. “Rhaegon and Aeron, of course, will be here as well, and the Kingsguard, and half the court, if father is right in his predictions.” The thought of seeing her aunt again bring Sansa much joy. If there is anyone who could help her, it is Lyanna Targaryen for sure. “I’m so excited.”

“Me too!” Jeyne agreed. “Just think, all the ladies and lords, the knights and the feast! I am still in awe. And we can finally meet little Princess Alysanna.” The last of her aunt’s brood, Alysanna Targaryen is just a shade older than Arya, both older than with Bran. Sansa just hopes she will be as demure as her mother, else she thinks she may cry. Just the chance of Arya finding an accomplice for her heinous behaviour leaves Sansa with a bad aftertaste in her mouth.

“I’m sure she is lovely,” Sansa agrees, but her mind has taken her elsewhere. Aunt Lyanna has told her the last time she visited that Sansa needs only name her wish and she, as Queen, will see it done. Little Sansa prays that those words hold true, for she does not think she’ll ever find a man like Willas Tyrell were she looks all over the realm. Can they not hurry, though?  
Septa Mordane returns, her expression as sullen as ever. It takes her but a beat to notice the youngest Stark girl had left once more. “Where is Arya? Is she hiding again?”

“She left not a long while ago,” Sansa explains, setting her hands in her lap. “I rather think she has gone to the stables again.” Her little sister has an unnatural love for horses.

Jeyne leans over and whispers only for Sansa’s ears when the Septa rushes out the door, “It is after all the place for horses, the stable.” And the two laugh heartily.

With her Tully looks, Sansa is nothing if not pretty. She has her mother’s auburn hair and those incredibly blue eyes, wide and clear, her frame dainty but tall and regal. In contrast, Arya is small, her hair dark, her eyes the colour of an angered sky. The youngest of Ned’s daughters has the face of a horse, if Sansa may say so herself. “I do not know who she resembles. I fear someone may have stolen my sister and replaced her.”

Despite her words, Sansa is fond of her siblings, even of Arya. Aye, they fight and call one another names and pull each other’s hair, but they are sisters. Relaxing, Sansa leans against her seat. There is much excitement for the upcoming visit of the King and Queen. Sansa knows, from uncle Benjen’s stories, that the Starks are closely bonded. Why she remembers that even uncle Bradon, father’s older brother, will be coming. This uncle she does not know so well. The Master of Moat Cailin, they call him. He is a widower since the last winters, which was a few years back, and since the death of his wife, he has kept to himself.

Robb storms in the room, scaring the two young girls. He grins boyishly at them, but his attention is more upon Sansa. “You’ll never believe what we’ve found, sister. Come see!” He looks at Jeyne then. “You father is looking for you, Jeyne. He said to let you know if I saw you.”

Following Robb, Sansa tries not to trip of the hem of her skirts when she accidentally steps upon them. Luckily for her, balance has always been one of her attributes. As it turns out, what Robb has found is a litter of direwolves. Small, gray creatures, all but one which is in the hands of her father. “There are two females and three males.”

“Where is their mother?” Sansa asks, worried all of a sudden. Clearly they are but pups, they need a mother.

“Injured,” comes her reply from father. Eddard looks to the wolf in his arms, scrawny and white.

“Oh, father! Do save her. Please! Please!” Sansa has never taken the suffering of beasts well. “Can master Luwin not save her?” And Ned Stark having never been able to deny anything to his daughter slowly nods his head. Sansa gives him a brilliant smile. “Thank you, father!"


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaenys doubts...

Rhaenys Dayne sets down her book and wrinkles her nose at Aegon. They are names after queen and kings of Westeros, she and her brother, for all they are not of royal blood. Her mother had often said it is because one must honour their heroes. Rhaenys on the other hand wonder how it is that she looks not one bit like her father while Aegon is the man’s very image. Her father says it is the King that had named her. But why would Rhaegar Targaryen bestow the name of a queen to a child not his own. Rhaenys has heard the whispers.

She supposes she ought to let go of her anger now. Arthur Dayne has not ever, not once, shown in any way that he makes difference between his daughter and his son. But still, it bothers Rhaenys. What if she is indeed the daughter of the King? What if those whispers are the truth and not what all these people have been telling her all her life?

The sound of steps distracts her. Looking over her shoulder Rhaenys sees her mother’s brother entering. Oberyn Martell barely has time to step over the threshold before Aegon lunges for him. Picking his nephew up, Oberyn spins him round and round. Aegon laughs and Rhaenys grimaces. She only wishes she could read her book in peace. Well, relative peace, for it only goes this far. Dorne is a noisy place and she almost wishes she were somewhere else. “Uncle Oberyn,” she greets the man as she lands a kiss on her rosy cheeks. “We were wondering when you’d appear.”

“Have you seen mother?” Aegon asks, innocent like. Her little brother does not know the state their mother is in. Rhaenys would tell him, but even she is not supposed to know. It was by chance that she has overheard the Maester’s diagnosis.  
Oberyn seems struck by the question. Rhaenys’ suspicions are confirmed when he picks her brother up and sets him on his knee much like father does when the news he wants to share with them is not the most pleasant. “Aye, I’ve seen her.”  
“Is she better then? Father says we can see her when she’s better. And you visited her, so she must be better.” Rhaenys hold back a snort. How foolish her brother can be. But at least he still has his hopes. Aegon’s eyes meet hers and he bites his lip, his face pleading. “Tell him, Rhaenys. It is so. Father promised.”

“Father has said so,” she validates, her hands shake slightly and she hides them in the folds of her dress, hoping to mask her sudden lack of courage. The thought of her mother being ill, beyond hope tears at her. She wants to ask her for the truth. She wants to know. “Do you think, perhaps, we could see her now? For a few moment only?” But her uncle’s eyes tell her differently, even as he makes a show of considering her request.

“That is a question best put to your father, my sweet.” His gentle tone does nothing for the nerves that twist within Rhaenys. Father has hardly left mother’s room. 

Aegon pouts, his face taking a sullen cast. Whining will not help them. Rhaenys send the boy a look. “Then we shall do so. Aegon, I do believe you must go to your lessons now.” In mother’s absence it falls to Rhaenys to steer her brother towards his tasks. Aegon complains but his feet move so his sister does nothing to quieten him. Let him complain if he so wishes. It is only after he has left that she once more looks to her uncle. “At least allow us to say our goodbyes.”

“Your mother is still of this world, girl,” Oberyn retorts. His face, similar in so many ways to hers, clouds over. “Those Maesters don’t know what they speak of.” Empty words. “Elia is a strong woman, she’ll pull through, even if your father and I have to help her every step. Have no doubt, little one, you shan’t lose your mother.” Oberyn catches the disbelief and purses his lips. “She needs you to believe in her, Rhaenys.”

Brushing a stray lock behind her ear, Rhaenys nods her head slowly. Uncle Oberyn cannot be fought with. He has wit enough to slay her every argument if he is so inclined. But Rhaenys can feel it deep inside her, the sense that something is not quite right. There is a storm approaching and she fears this time the sand will swallow them alive. The girls slides her feet off the settee. By habit her hands reach out for the book. She holds it up and pretends to read the letters as her uncle stares off into the empty nothingness. It is all that he can do to assuage the pain. Rhaenys hides behind her ink-splattered pages, he behind the emptiness. And father, well, father simply holds onto mother and perhaps hopes it will be enough to keep her with them. Mayhap it might do.

Mother, Rhaenys wonders if she will ever be able to think of Elia Martell without that stab of pain. It is not entirely her fault. “Uncle, do you think father might takes us to the tourney when mother gets better?” Travelling unsettles Elia, it is not often that they leave Dorne. Although Rhaenys dearly wishes they would. She wants to see more than the gardens grown from sand. She wants to see the snow they say covers the whole of the North. She wants to see the dragon skulls and the Iron Throne. But her mother is ever sick and unable to move for more than a few hours at a time. 

It started shortly after Aegon was born. The Maester said she would not grow heavy again. A sort of melancholy had stolen over her mother at that point. Rhaenys cannot understand why, for father’s attention never abated from her, nor does it now. But Elia Martell is ‘unbowed, unbent, unbroken’. Rhaenys admired her mother’s strength of character and she hates it in equal measure. It tears apart at what little she thought she had left. 

“I’m certain he will,” Oberyn replies to her earlier question. “You might be crowned the Queen of Love and Beauty by the Prince.” 

“Which one?” Rhaenys asks cheekily, waiting for her uncle’s amusement to surface.  
True to form, Oberyn chuckles. “The eldest may take his chance in a tourney. But if your tastes run to the younger ones,” the rest is left to silence.

Befitting a Targaryen, Rhaenys thinks, that she should form an affection for someone who might be her brother. “They say he looks like his mother.”

“Aye, Jon Targaryen looks more wolf on the surface. But don’t be fooled, he is a dragon.” Oberyn falls back against his seat.


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olyvar Frey does his best at being an older brother...

Once again little Roslin is crying over something their father has said. Walder Frey is not the gentlest of men, if anything he lacks any gentleness when it comes to his very many children. “Snivelling wench! Quit your weeping and go be of some use.” His curses only disturb Roslin farther. But these are the only words Walder Frey has for his daughters. To him all these women are useless. “When you’ve brought something to this family you may take affront!”

Grabbing his sister around the waist, Olyvar pulls her away as their older brothers laugh. Stroking her back gently, he whispers something in her ear to quieten her sobs. “There, there, Roslin. Don’t take the words to heart. Father is angry just now.” Walder Frey is a very bitter man, angry all the time, perhaps at the Gods. It would not surprise Olyvar should his father declare war upon the divine for not handing to him all that the man thinks he deserves. Even so, Roslin is an innocent. She has no knowledge of the many insults the patriarch of House Frey thinks are thrown his way. “Wait a few hours and you’ll see his disposition shall improve. You may ask him then what you will.”

The latest subject to bring a frown upon Walder Frey’s face is the news that the oldest of the King’s sons will soon be finding a bride. Olyvar is actually older than the Prince Jon and still unmarried, and the King’s father himself married when he was past his first score of years. The young man very much doubts that the Prince is indeed searching for a wife. Walder Frey worries that his daughters will be overlooked in favour of other houses. The Tyrells have an exceptionally beautiful girl according to rumour, House Stark boasts a couple of daughters, House Dayne has Rhaenys whom they say the king himself named after Aegon’s the Conqueror’s beloved. There is House Lannister, of course, with pretty middle-branch maidens to offer, and Stannis Baratheon has a daughter, but perhaps that one shan’t be anyone’s pick, for half here face is covered in dead skin the stories say. Looking at Roslin, Olyvar cannot think of a man who would turn her affections away. She is pretty, the prettiest of their father’s daughters. She and Tyta are part of a distinct few of the family who may be called good-looking. However his sister does not wish to marry into the Royal family if she can help it.

“I do not want to do it,” Roslin whined softly, sounding heartbroken. Olyvar shook his head but bade her to continue. “I shan’t marry unless it is Edmure that asks.”

“Gods, Roslin!” Olyvar chuckles. His eyes roll heavenwards. “I still do not understand why you would pin your hopes on the Fish! Dragons are better suited to provide for you.” In this he jokes, Roslin slaps his arm but laughs along. “Better that you do as father says. Go to Winterfell, but instead of charming the fabled Prince, smile your way into his uncle’s heart. It is as simple as that Roslin.” 

“Those maidens, they all go there in hopes that the Prince will notice them. Nobody will think me any different.” It must be Roslin’s worst nightmare to have Edmure Tully thinking her a power-hungry shrew. Just the way her voice contorts at the thought, growing red. “What will he think of me then?” She looks like she might cry again.

Younger sisters and their woes. Olyvar thinks that when he does marry he will spend more time in the Sept should his wife give him daughters aplenty. Just looking at Rosling he can feel the worry rising. As a father it would fall to him to protect his daughters. By which Olyvar means that he will give them to the Faith before they realise their interest in men. “He will think that you are a lovely girl and he will count himself lucky for having your heart.” Which Olyvar does not know to be strictly true. If a girl ever tried to latch herself onto him, the young Frey is pretty sure he will run for the Wall as fast as he can. They bring only trouble, after all.

“Do you think Elenei Baratheon will also be there?” Roslin’s voice is but a soft whisper now.   
Elenei Baratheon, the daughter of old, dead Robert Baratheon. A babe when her father lost his head, they say she grows lovelier by the day. “And if she is? Elenei Baratheon is a child, Ros. You needn’t fear her.”

“Oh, Oly! ‘Tis not her I fear. Do you not know her mother follows her as a shadow? She scares me.” Roslin bites her lower lip. “There is a look in her eyes whenever anyone speaks to or of her daughter.” 

Not untrue that. Cersei Lannister-Baratheon can scare anyone if she so pleases, and she most certainly pleases just that when her daughter is involved. Elenei may be growing without a paternal figure, but that might be just as well, for what father could that monster have made her? Olyvar shudders at the thought of Robert Baratheon and his deeds. Alas her mother is a true lioness, and her fangs sink into any man that dares look wrong at her daughter. Come to think of it the girl herself is as much a threat as her mother. 

After all, is it not that Cersei Lannister hopes that one of the Princes will notice her daughter? Any House really hopes that one of Rhaegar’s sons will pick a daughter of theirs. But the King seems in no hurry, nor does the Queen, for all that she is gracious to all lady ‘this’ and lady ‘that’. “You worry over naught. She guards her child and you cannot deny that Elenei, sweet as she is, incurs the wrath of many for her father’s actions.” Which is unfair, Olyvar points out quietly at the scowl on Roslin’s lips. “I hardly think she’ll set her eyes on your Trout, sister.”

Unconvinced, Roslin huffs and walks ahead of her brother. “His name is Edmure Tully,” she calls back childishly. 

“Tully,” Olyvar says, a small smirk on his face, “trout. Same difference, sister mine.” Does the silly girl hope to become a mermaid by marrying the fish? Olyvar remembers that at some point or another, this was one of Roslin’s fantasies. One of her many fantasies. Like any other girl she had dreams in her hair, countless and improbable, in the colour of comfort. By the time she finds out they are only that, dreams, it will be too late to soften the disappointment. Olyvar does not tell her that. He allows his sister to dream of her Lord Tully some more and says not once that the man will likely think her a child and not look twice her way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Olyvar just doesn't get enough love.


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here comes Rhaegon!

_But Elenei would not to so easily dictated to. The wind could howl all it pleased with her mother’s ire and the seas could swirl and spew and blacken with her father’s anger, she would not be bowed. Holding her head up high, the young daughter of the summer breeze and sweet waves swam from her father’s halls once more to the shore._

_As they had planned, Durran awaited her on the steep rock, looking far into the horizon. Young and strong was he, Durran Godsgrief, imposing with the heavy sword at his hip. And yet upon glancing to fair Elenei the blue depths of his eyes lost their frost and warmed. For to see Elenei was to love her. Daughter of the gods, perfect in every way, she had stolen more than the human’s heart with her smiles._

_In their grief the gods decided that he was to be punished. And so every castle Durran made by the sea that had created his Elenei would fall with the sun. The King of the Sea called to his horses, demonic beings born of the foam and seaweed, and they rode one and one until they touched the rock, until they jumped over jagged edges and onto freshly lain stone. Hooves beat upon the blocks, fissuring and cracking the work of a hundred days. And each time Durran’s castles fell._

_In the ruins Elenei held him close to her, weeping her despair, steeling her heart and further defying those who’d breathed life into her. And each time Durran swore he would build a bigger castle, one that could withstand the storm, one that not even the gods with all their power could break into pieces. Fed by his own fury, he bellowed his plans to the heaven, issuing a challenge that could not be ignored._

_“Should my seventh castle fall under your attack, I shall give back your daughter. But if my castle holds, Elenei remains with me!” So said he onto the gods that watched him with contempt. Elenei pledged herself to her husband’s wishes, she would follow his oath._

_Thinking they had won, the parents of fair Elenei waited for the seventh castle of Durran to be raised. But the man had learned from his past experiences. He would not meet another storm unprepared. So it came to pass that Durran left his lady wife in search of a power that rivalled the gods and also to find a man capable of outwitting the divine._

_Seven long years he wandered the earth, slaying creatures of darkness and bringing light to people who had never thought they would see it. Until on the seventh day of the seventh month of the seventh year he came upon the hut of an old witch._

_“I know what you search for, Storm King,” she told him. “And if you lend me hand in my time of need, I shall repay you in kind. There is someone, aye; someone who not even the gods can match in his craft.”_

_“Ask and I shall provide what it is you need,” Durran made her the promise. It seemed that luck had finally found him. Victory close at hand, the human lover of Elenei sat upon the hard ground and listened to the hag._

Aeron’s voice cracks slightly as he reads. Rhaegon sits on the settee next to his brother and listens intently to the legend of Durran and Elenei. There are times when he regrets not having sight, but this is not one of them. There is a sort of comfort to be found in the presence of his siblings.

“I like this story so much,” Alysanna whispers from his left, her voice soft as to not interrupt Aeron. Her arm touches her brothers and she is quiet after.

Rhaegon breathes in at the contact. Having been born without the blessing of sight his other senses are, perhaps, more developed that one would have thought. For instance he knows that his sister wears a dress with circular patterns as his fingers brush the brocade and the sewn shapes. He can also tell that she’s had lemon cakes again. There is the faint scent of lemons coming from her side. And then there is the warmth of her hand against his.

Jon had chosen to ride with father which leaves the rest of them with mother. Lyanna sits next to her only daughter, her longer limbs making it possible for her hand to rest on his shoulder. Rhaegon relishes in her touch. His mother understands him like no one else. The young Prince supposes it is to be expected, for she gave them all life. If she does not understand them, then who would? He can hear her humming her approval at Aeron’s skill, and Rhaegon smiles. Aeron does not find much pleasure in reading, but he does it anyway. He reads because he knows that Rhaegon does love the tales.

As children, Rhaegon remembers that cruel whispers made him sad. He would often hide away in his rooms and weep over what came from the mouth of others. At that time he cursed being born with this flaw. Aeron had been the one to find him, and upon extracting from him the reason of his distressed he’d done something which had then baffled Rhaegon. Quite seriously he had grasped his brother’s hand and said to him, “Symeon Star-Eyes had jewels to replace the eyes he lost. But you don’t need those. You have something better. Me! I’ll be your eyes.”

And as he had promised all those years past, Aeron sees for both Rhaegon and himself. Only in dreams does Rhaegon ever see the shapes of the world surrounding him. When he flies over the hills and valleys, when he touches the water with thin wings; then he can see. That is the strangest thing is that he flies always in the shape of a dragon, never as his human self. But these visions he keeps to himself.

“He is really good,” Lyanna praises her son who continues reading. “Are you enjoying this, Rhaegon?” There must be a special place for her blind son in her heart, for Lyanna is especially careful of him.

“Very much, mother.” And Rhaegon loves her back just as much. It is for this reason that he is shy of speaking to her or father about his dreams. He has already burdened them with his blindness. Should be provoke them further pain with promises of madness? Nay, the Prince will not do so. His secret he will carry himself. Nobody but he can know.

“I’m glad.” He hears the words as they leave his mother’s lips and Rhaegon smiles returning his attention to the story, waiting for Durran to come upon Brandon Stark, the one whom they call the Builder. 

Just now, Rhaegon is glad they are heading North.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been thinking of starting a small piece dedicated to the legends circulating around Westeros (and not only). What do you think? Would you be interested in reading something like that?


	5. v

The swords clash in an elegant, old dance know so well to warriors. Metal slides against metal, the screech tears through the gathering. So similar it is to the wail of beasts that people whisper of dragons flying back upon the shores of Westeros. The ghosts of old have come to dance and once more wings beat against the wind, only this time they look human to the eye. But there are dragons of that there is no doubt. Again the steel bodies meet driven by powerful thrusts.  


Jon evades a potentially damaging hit from his opponent, daring a smile upon taking in the confusion on the other’s face. He dives in, hoping tat his advantage will hold. He can almost taste the victory. The young Prince makes for the middle and here lies his mistake.  


Having prepared for this outcome, Jaime swings his sword full force, catching the Jon’s side. “Do not celebrate your victory before you have it before your eyes, boy.” He knocks Jon’s head for good-measure. “I show you leniency where other would beat you bloody.”

Ser Jaime Lannister is mocking him, of that much Jon is sure. “I was so close.” It is not a complaint, rather a utterance of disappointment. Besides he’s already full of bruises. The future head of House Lannister takes serious his duty of training him. 

“Alas, not close enough,” the blond snaps. Yet his face smiles, that grin which irritates others so. The same grin which has maidens half his age melting. “Have I the right of it, Your Majesty?” This question is posed to the King who stands in the crowd, a careful observer.

Rhaegar Targaryen is the kind of father who demands that his children be the best they can be. Of course it is done with a parentally fondness that one cannot help but bask in. Jon waits to hear his father’s answer, for this approval he needs to have. If in the eyes of his father his standing is low, so it is in the eyes of his King. While the first hurts in an almost physical manner, the second speaks also of his image to the masses. Jon hopes that he has given his father reasons to be proud in this.

“Aye, you do indeed,” the King speaks and the whole world is drowned out by the sound of his voice. The wind itself stops howling, but a moment, yet enough for his words to be heard by all. Breaking from the other people he steps forward. Rhaegar’s hand finds Jon’s shoulder as the two men share a look. Turning to his son, Rhaegar’s hold tightens. “You have done well.” His voice does not tremble, nor do his eyes shine with unshed tears, but there is a certain pride in his face. “My son.”

Breath catching in his throat, Jon’s eyes widen. “Many thanks, Your Highness.” Seldom does he call his father by anything but title in public. It is the way of royalty. “Father.” This he whispers for Rhaegar’s ears only and he is rewarded by a slight smile. Feeling rather like a wee boy again, Jon wishes to be rid of the spectators. 

The ornate cane his father uses for support touches his leg gently. “Again.” It comes out an order. Jon is ready for it and just nods his consent to Jaime who has picked up his sword again. “This time do not allow yourself to be distracted.” With those words the King retakes his place and waits for another attempt of his son to improve his skills. “You may now begin.”

Jon knows it is a constant source of frustration for his father that he may not train his son himself. It is a story they seldom tell in his presence, but Jon has heard it many times by now. The King was in a battle long ago, back when Jon himself was but a boy, and in this war they call Robert’s Rebellion he had his leg injured. They say that Robert’s hammer nearly took it off. Jon hurriedly glances to the King. For as long as he could remember, Jon has always belied his father indestructible. Who could bring down such a giant?

There are darker words still. Some speak of a grievous wound that Robert gave to his mother. Jon does not speak of that with either of his parents. It is but a whisper in truth, as if the speakers fear for their tongue should they broach the subject in brad daylight. Whichever way that may be Jon has long since closed his ears to those words. His favourite are by far those rumours that claim he has a sister in Dorne and that she was mothered by the Princess of Dorne herself. Laughable it is that they should think so when they themselves see the love the king bears the Queen.

Other men might cheat, they might seek their pleasure in beds other than their own, but not the King. Nay, Rhaegar Targaryen is clearly enchanted with Lyanna. Jon often finds their displays of affection, innocent as they seem to be, nauseating, but in that way all children do when it comes to their parents. He indulgently turns his eyes away when such a tender moment occurs and hopes to the Gods they will be done soon. There is only so much a boy his age can take. 

“You let your thought distract you,” Jaime warns, forcing Jon to back a few steps. “It is dangerous, my Prince. Should I be your enemy for real such an occurrence would result in your death.” Once more he lunges for Jon. “Keep your wits about you if you do not wish to find yourself impaled.”

“I am not so easily vanquished,” Jon boasts jokingly after he has dodged Jaime. He tries a manoeuvre of his own. The sword barely touches the other man. But Jon is determined not to give up. This time he shall not lose to Jaime.

“Pray the Gods help you now, Ser Jaime.” It is Rhaegar to voice the words. Jon does not doubt that his father has noticed the impish gleam that has stolen over his eyes. As well he should, Jon decides, for he has raised him from boy to man.

His moment of glory becomes a certainty after he lands two rapid blows against the opponent’s chest. Jaime stumbles back, taken by surprise. Jon does not hesitate to solidify his position as victor by knocking Jaime over. The blond falls and the sword comes to his neck. “Yield,” Jon commands, assuming a voice close to Rhaegar’s own.

“I yield.” Jaime laughs at the look of triumph on Jon’s face. “Careful that you don’t mistake luck for skill, else you’ll find defeat easier to taste than victory.” And strangely enough the words are meant in an almost fatherly manner.


	6. vi

"Winterfell is yours, Your Highness," the deep but pleasant voice of Eddard Stark says by way of greeting to his King and good-brother. Queen Lyanna steps out of the wheelhouse, followed by all her children, except for the eldest of them who is still at his father's left.

Willas Tyrell remembers the boy Jon Targaryen had been all those years ago. He also remembers the twins for the babes they were. Now he sees a new face, yet it does not surprise him for the only daughter of King Rhaegar is well-known for having her father's heart and thus pulling his strings whichever way it suits her. In that she apparently resembles her she-wolf mother. And not only there are they to bear a resemblance.

Before he knows it the King and Queen have moved down the line and they stand before him. Willas bows as is becoming and thinks upon looking at Lady Lyanna that she has changed little over the years. "My King, My Queen."

"Young Willas," Lyanna greets him dispensing of formalities. Ironically enough she is but a few years his senior. She smiles and her husband nods to him. "It is good to see you." In this moment Willas does not find it hard to understand how a woman may turn a man's world around. "How fares your family?"

"They are good, my Queen. My sister longs to be presented at court soon." The words pale to the excitement little Margaery exhibits. Of course, the little girl has stopped being little some time ago, along the time she started begging their parents to be brought to court, claiming that she would like nothing better than to serve as one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. Their father is eager to go along for reasons of his own, and they have much to do with the Queen's sons.

"And I should like to meet her once more," the Queen replies. She gives no outward sign that she holds any suspicions towards the intentions of his house. Willas supposes that this should ease his burden but all it does it make him apprehensive. "I shall see you again tonight, I trust."

Hardly can he breathe until another female, one as dangerous as the previous, finds her way to his side. Willas nearly draws back at the sight of Sansa. Her deep blue eyes speak of adoration, the admiration of a young woman-child, still too innocent to know how dangerous it is to leave her heart unguarded. Catching himself, Willas conjures a smile for her. "Sansa, may I be of assistance?"

Her eyes widen. "I thought you might take me to see the wolf and her litter. Did you know we were planning to gift Jon with one?"

If ever there was a woman to use awkward lines so sweetly, then Sansa Stark outshines her by far. Willas knows he ought to refuse, he knows that he ought not to feed her fondness for him, nor give her further reason to look at him as if he were the answer to her prayers. Alas, he cannot refuse her. "Very well, but we cannot be long, fair lady. Our absence will be noticed and then both of us shall be in trouble."

Sansa nods solemnly and places her hand on his arm gingerly. It's a position often taken by Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. Resigning himself to it, Willas leads Sansa away, into the quarters where the mother-wolf has been placed, her pups along with her.

The fearsome creatures lies sleeping. Yet weak from birth and loss of blood the she-wolf stirs not an inch. Her children run amok, small yipps and fumbling legs and Sansa melts at his side. She lets go of his arm and picks up a pup, elegant and gray with shining golden eyes. Watching the girl nuzzle the little direwolf, Willas is once again reminded that she's but a child herself. A child, indeed, but not for long. She already looks ready to shed her image for another one. Why the thought should scare him. Willas does not know. Perhaps because if she were of a proper age he would be forced to see her as a woman.

"Do you think Jon will like our gift?" she asks excitedly. The look she gives him is hopeful, innocent, quite enough to make his stomach churn.

"I'm sure he'll find it pleasing." Although he does not know which way the Prince's tastes run, Willas is quite certain no one could refuse a present if it came from the likes of Sansa. Even if said present is potentially dangerous. Placing the pup back onto the ground, Sansa approaches the mother. Willas tenses as Lord Eddard's daughter leans in. "Have a care, Sansa. Don't disturb her or she might lash at you." Wild beasts cannot be trusted.

"Oh, don't worry, my Lord, she sleeps. I doubt she would wake even if I touched her." Obedient enough to know when not to test the limits, Sansa comes back at his side, avoiding the balls of fur that run around once more. "They are in good condition. We should head back." Offering her his hand, Willas thanks the Seven that she is too young and much too proper to do anything but stare demurely at the ground as they walk back.

But luck, fickle fiend, throws in their path one person Willas has not been expecting to see until later. Queen Lyanna rises an eyebrow at the sight of them. She smiles, that sort of smile women put on when they know a secret. Willas frowns. "Your Highness." It almost sounds like a question, falling from his lips.

No reply is given for the Queen merely shakes her head gently and murmurs to herself. Then she passes them, her hand landing but a moment of Sansa's shoulder in what Willas is sure is some sort of female means of communication. After that she is gone, taking to the road that will see her to the stables.

"I must go," Sansa says quite suddenly. "Mother is sure to be looking for me. I forgot." She does not explain further, but Willas allows her to break away and make her escape.

It is for the best, the says to himself when he catches the seed of remorse threatening to lodge itself in his chest. As from this moment he must do his very best to secure a position in the good graces of the King and Queen. Should he fail, his father will likely be more than displeased. Willas breathes heavily. All these ambitions of his family's could drive a man mad.

This is not the time for pity though, so Willas hold his head up high and marches on. Dimly he thinks that not even battle is quite as scary. "Seven help me," he mutters to himself in hopes that the Gods will.


	7. vii

Jon holds back his laughter at the awe in Aeron’s face. Arya – who they say looks like his mother – rolls her eyes. There is a certain resemblance, sure enough, but they are different. Perhaps it is for the fact that his mother’s claws come down in a well-defined arch, whereas Arya is still clumsy, though determined. Back to Aeron though, his brother prefers the softer ladies, those he may protect, so Jon is not surprised at the boy’s reaction. “Our mother wields a sword, brother,” he reminds the young one dutifully. “Does it bother you also. It was father that trained her awhile.”

“Our mother had no need for those skills,” Aeron replies, brows furrowing. “We are at peace.”

A tenuous thing, Jon thinks. Peace and war are always divided by a very thin line – almost too thin. Today’s friends may turn enemies tomorrow. “For all the good it does. But you cannot rely on that.”

“I needn’t worry for it.” Young Aeron shouts for Arya to spar a round with him. “You will be King, brother. Not I.” And the truth should not taste quite so bitter upon one’s tongue. Such must be their fate.

Opting to keep silent, Jon leans against a post. He needs some time to think. Mayhap Aeron is fortunate in his apparent disenchantment with the throne and the position of king. The burden is enough to break one’s back. Doubts eat alive even the soundest of minds in the face of grand decisions. Such a decision is the one he makes upon seeing his little sister walking with Sansa Stark.

When the time comes, he will meet Rhaenys of House Dayne. Not because he believes she may be of the same blood with him, but to prove to himself that she isn’t – she can’t be, for all the whispers he’s heard. Father wouldn’t send a child of his away; this Jon knows for certain. He would do no different. 

“I can see the thoughts jumping about in your head.” Robb clamps down a hand upon his cousin’s shoulder. “You will harm yourself and what good will you be then?”

Laughing, Jon gives his attention to him. “No good, I suppose. Tell me, have you invited the whole of the realm? Or may be begin soon. At the rate we’re moving, I’ll be twenty by the time the feast begins.”

“Eager to have all those young ladies clamouring for your attention, are you?” Robb teases good-naturedly. “Women are more trouble than they’re worth, my Prince. There is no sense in hurrying the fate.” It is quick enough on its own, with little help from boys like them.

Maidens. How could Jon possibly forget? There is no pressure yet, but his mother has been hinting at it of late, and the King listens closely to the Queen and her advice. “I do believe they will be too caught up in you to bother me too much.”

After all, Jon has that wild charm of the North, but Robb owns the refined splendour of the South. Which is not to say that the Prince envies his cousin. He has little need of it; women always seem attracted to the promise of a golden crown to glitter atop their head. 

“What say you, cousin? The Prince is more to the taste of fair maidens than the Lord. Have you not learned that?” That is the way in which Robb understands to lighten the mood, and at the same time express exactly what he thinks of the women at court. “I do not know how your mother stands having them around.” The exasperation is clear in his mannerism.

“They call it an acquired taste,” Jon whispers as if imparting some sort of secret. “And some of them are quite lovely.” He sighs. “But I look at them, all smiles and gentle coos, and I feel nothing but a vague admiration for a finely arched brow or a pair of mesmerising eyes.”

“That has to do not with them, but with the fact that your eyes do not look where they should.” And it is Robb’s turn to smile mysteriously – well-versed in things that are foreign to the Prince. “Brows and eyes and lips are fine indeed. But look instead at slender fingers. Look at tiny waists or dainty shoulders.”

It all sounds strange and oddly exciting. The songs speak of eyes and brows and lips made for sweet words. Soft skin, uncovered shoulders and elegant fingers are left to the imagination. To actively seek out these, Jon pushes back his confusion. Again, Robb has always knows these sort of things before him. 

“And when you find a lady that appeals to you, ask her for a walk,” Robb instructs with the same grin on his face. It is almost like they are children again, ready to create some sort of mischief.

“Robb, it’s cold. The poor girl will freeze.” What could his cousin be thinking?

“That is exactly the point.” And so, Jon soaks up the information Robb so gladly gives. “I know a girl. She can teach you a few things. We only need to be discreet.” It sounds dangerous and exhilarating.

Uncertain, the Prince glances around. “You think it wise?” How many eyes watch them? Who listens?

“You’ll have time enough for wise when you’re an old man, my Prince.” His cousin’s tone is slightly mocking, and perhaps that is what startles Jon into agreeing.

“The Kingsguard will not be easy to avoid.” But they will manage – or so says Robb. Seeing as he’s already practically agreed, Jon offers no more protests. It would be futile either way.

“It’s your nameday, after all.” And with that all talks of learning are over for Arya comes their way, with Aeron in tow. The youngest of Eddard’s daughters grins, a mark of triumph as sure as the sun rises from the east and sets in the west. “I see her skill has unmanned you, brother.”

“Not so,” Aeron disagrees. “But unlike some, I do not hit girls. What sort of man would I be?” The words are rewarded with a bark of laughter from Robb.

“Don’t try to take my glory,” Arya hisses, somewhat miffed. “I won because I was better than you.”

“You won because I allowed it,” Aeron tells her, his voice cool and cutting. Unlike Jon, he does not fear offending others, and it shows in his daring, bold replies. There is something decidedly more dragon about the middle son, just as Jon is more wolf. 

Arya is not amused and she too is a daring little thing. With a practice sword in her hand, no less. A dangerous little thing, one might say. So Jon enjoys the show, and does not worry about anything for a little while. When it comes time he will surely be drowned in troubles.


	8. viii

Arya likes Uncle Brandon best. She does not know exactly why this is so. Whether it is a genuine admiration for her father’s brother or for the fact that mother always seems to avoid the man, Arya cannot tell. But where her mother isn’t, there may Arya be as unladylike as she wants. Which is always a good thing as far as she is concerned. That, and the fact that her uncle sometimes allows her a drink of his silver flask.

Mother and Sansa will take one look at the pair and shake their heads. But while her sister will let her be – most likely abandoning her for the company of the Tyrell heir – mother is completely different in her response to her antics. Never has she caused a scene. Her voice is calm, almost sweet, but there is something harsh about it. It is as if every word towards her uncle is a curse of sorts. Like mother always disapproves of him. Which she certainly does of her youngest daughter. At least there is a person who understand her. So Arya continues to cling to her uncle whenever he comes to visit – which is not often enough as she would like.

Right now she is in the stables, getting mud on her brand new skirts. Arya looked at the horses longingly. Lady Stark has forbidden all of her children, except Robb and Sansa, if supervised, to ride. It’s unfair. It’s stupid!

“Now, what is a lady doing in the stables?” a deep voice asks. There is amusement laced in the words, and a bit of mockery. Arya knows exactly who is speaking. She looks up and grins.

“Uncle Brandon!” Arya yells, jumping from her current position. She lurches towards the man, running as fast as her legs carry her. “You’re here. You’re here!” Jumping up and down she throws her arms around his waist.

“If only half my family was this happy to see me,” he murmured with pretended affectation. “Pet, you mustn’t jump on me quite so, else both of us will tumble to the ground.”

“I fell and broke the skin on my knee,” she proclaims, letting him go to show the wound. Arya lifts the skirt up. “See? It looks worse than it really is.” The scab is still fresh.

“Fell on your knees, did you?” Brandon questioned. “One these days you’ll fall on your back. Aye?” There is a wolfish grin on his face as he ruffles her hair affectionately. “Little wolf, have a care. But what is this I hear of your sister mooning over some boy?”

“Did she tell you?” Sansa can’t keep her mouth shut long enough to breathe. Arya is not surprised in the least.  
Brandon shakes his head. “Nay. ‘Twas my sister who told me. Said she saw them together.”

“Sansa is stupid.” The reaction is a habit. “If she likes him she should tell him and get it over with. This is stupid.” Much of what her sister does Arya finds senseless. Especially the songs. How can she be so naïve as to believe that life is a song? Even Arya knows that that’s not true.

“That she is,” Bradon agrees with a laugh. “Since we’ve no more to speak of where your sister is concerned, tell me how goes your sword training.”

“Mother does not like it.” Then again mother does not like most of the things Arya does. “I’m getting better. I even managed to outdo Aeron.” 

“Your mother never held any love for steel, as I remember it.” He lens down. “But you, Arya Stark, have the wolf in your blood. Did you know that in the old days our women were taught how to wield swords?” At the shake of her head he smiles indulgently. “You should have Nan tell you.”

“Tell her what?” Catelyn asks loudly over the sound of nickering horses. “Arya, what did I tell you!” she exclaims finally seeing the mess her daughter has made of her dress. “Can you not keep from ruining your dresses until after supper?”

“Let the child be, good-sister. She is just having some fun.” Bradon’s interference is met with a stony glare from the mother. “Now, now, Cat, there is no need to look at me like that.”

“Like what, my lord?” Her voice is equally cold, all the fight draining out of her. “Arya, go to your room and have your dress changed. We will speak of this later.” She waits until her child is a safe distance away. “As for you, I hope you have the decency to keep your distance.”

“It’s been years, Cat. Can you not let it go?” Brandon steps closer to her. Catelyn takes two steps back. He sighs deeply. “Gods, woman! You know how to hold a grudge.”

“You show no remorse. You gave me no apology. You made a fool out of me.” For a moment she tears her eyes away from him. “I hated you. I cursed your name. Had I never married Ned, I would hate you still. But I’ve met a man, after knowing only boys, and I realised that it’s not worth it.” Catelyn steps closer to him finally. “Boys are not worth it.”

“Are you telling me I am a boy?” He looks offended. It must hurt his pride that she no longer worships the very ground he walks on.

Laughing, Catelyn seems to realise how Brandon’s mind works. “I hold no grudge for something that means nothing to me.” There is a moment of silence between them, am exchange of stares. She would tell him that he stopped existing to her that summer all those years ago. But it would be useless. Brandon lives to please himself. That is no secret, and by now Catelyn has learned not to take it to heart. “Speak to me when other are present if you must. But if you ever come between me and any of my children, the gates of Winterfell will be closed to you.” 

“Bold words,” he says. “But you forget that while my father yet lives you can do nothing but obey his word.”

“The Lord of Winterfell will close those gates personally,” Catelyn tells him acidly. “You think that I have so little standing in my own home? You father knows what sort of man you are. And he will treat you accordingly. I say no more, my lord.”

With that she turns around and leaves him there, hoping that the conversation will remain between those walls. There is no point in digging up the past. It’s long gone. Yet her words speak truth. Family. Duty. Honour. Brandon is not family to her – heart – but he is duty – to her mind, at least. And the honour of her House must be upheld, even if she does not enjoy the man’s company.


	9. ix

In the midst of their celebration comes the raven with the foreboding news.

Sansa is sitting with her aunt, sister and cousin, attentively listening to the woman recount a jester's act at court. If only father would allow her to go to King's Landing. Instead she must wait for her aunt to visit. Of course she is happy with Queen Lyanna. Her aunt is a delightful person, but she wishes for more. Surreptitiously she looks at Princess Alysanna who is smiling softly. She is so lucky, Sansa thinks, admiring the simple, elegant dress and the neatly braided hair. Wouldn't Willas like her better if she looked more like a Southron lady? She does think he would.

"Sansa, dear," Lyanna calls her quite suddenly. "I have brought you and Arya a few trinkets from King's Landing. I was not sure of your preference but I dare say you shall divide everything between the two of you admirably well." Her smile is full of promises. Or so Sansa tells herself.

"You needn't have," Eddard's oldest daughter replies, while Arya rolls her eyes and hides a sigh at the sharp look Sansa throws her.

"Bring them in," the Queen speaks to one of her maids. She seems as excited as Sansa. "Don't frown so, Arya. I promise I have picked something you will like."

The maids bring in bolts of material in vivid colours and of excellent quality. Sansa gasps, thinking of all the magnificent dresses she could have. Thus she forgets to be suspicious. More pressing problems are upon her in this moment. If only she found a seamstress good enough up here that is. Another maid trails after them. But she holds something entirely different. This time Sansa makes a small sound of discomfort as Arya gives a sharp yell of joy.

It is a sword. A thin, relatively long and silver sword with an elegant handle. "I thought this would be more to your taste, little Arya," Lyanna comments with a laugh."Truth be told, it was Jon's idea. Having gone unnoticed until then, a smaller scabbard is still in the maid's hands. Lyanna signals for the object to be given to Sansa. "And this is for you." With more decoration than Arya's sword and much smaller, Sansa's dagger is a thing of beauty.

The gift pleases her despite the fact that her knowledge of weaponry is limited. "They are lovely, but I'm afraid mother would not approve," she dares, fingering the engraved surface, marvelling at the intricate model.

"Is that your only protest?" Lyanna seems surprised and her daughter titters softly.

"I have told you that she would like it, mother; did I not?" Alysanna asks. "I am certain Lady Catelyn can be persuaded, cousin."

Sansa smiles at Alysanna. With her Targaryen colouring and sweet disposition, nobody would have guessed her love for such unladylike exploits as sword fighting and horse riding. She can certainly see why Bran flushes every morning when they break their fast.

"Perhaps," Sansa finally agrees. She wants to say more but the door opens and a frightened looking squire comes in.

"Your Highness," he bows, "my ladies." He draws a deep breath. "The King wishes to see Your Highness," he addresses his Queen. The poor boy is so nervous the words come out with a shudder.

"Does he?" Lyanna asks. But the question is not meant to be answered. She rises to her feet and pats her daughter's hair affectionately. Smiling at her nieces she tries not to show herself worried. "Enjoy your day. It seems I am needed elsewhere."

Together with the boy, Lyanna descends the stairs that lead to the inner court. She does not question their destination. It is common knowledge that men love training better than they do drinking tea and eating lemon cakes. There is something not quite fine in the atmosphere. It has been a long time since anything like this.

"Your Highness," the men greet her with bows. Lyanna nods her head back at them but instead of speaking she makes her way to Rhaegar's side. Her husband has retreated to a corner. He holds a letter in steady hands, but the taut line of his mouth is enough to make Lyanna understand the news is not good. To anyone else he might look simply serious, but to Lyanna he looks sad.

Placing her hand on his arm, Lyanna leans in at an appropriate distance. "You have send for me, my King?"

Rhaegar turns to look at her, and his eyes burn her. "Take a walk with me," he says, folding the letter.

The godswood is silent; it always is. Lyanna holds onto Rhaegar's arm, patiently waiting for him to speak. Whatever the letter contains, it cannot be good judging by his reaction. But he does not say anything more. Instead he hands her the paper. The seal of House Dayne is not unknown to Lyanna. She unfolds the paper and reads.

"Lady Dayne is dead?" It is more the shock that makes her ask than the thought that Arthur could be lying to them. "Poor Elia. She was sick. Why did they not say anything?"

"Read further," Rhaegar tells her.

Doing his bidding Lyanna can only gasp at what she finds. "You do not think this is true, do you? Surely they would not-" But they would, Lyanna realises. The chance is not to be wasted.

"I had not anticipated this," he confesses.

"You have renounced your claim," Lyanna comments.

"Rumours are dangerous," her husband reminds her. "If Dorne stands behind the girl's claim to the throne…" He needn't continue. "We do not need another war."

It is not advisable. It is not good. Lyanna does know. Wars cost money and lives. They are a horror. "I think we should wait. We do not know if Dorne will push for anything." She thinks for a few moments on that. "Or we could eliminate the threat."

"How do you propose we do that?" It is not the first time he asks her for her judgement. Rhaegar regards her patiently.

"We need Dorne on our side. They wish for some king of acknowledgement, do they not?" At his nods, Lyanna smiles. "Then they shall have it. It is past time for Viserys to take a wife. He is acting lord of Dragonstone, a Prince in his own right. That should appease Dorne."

"The question is, who do we ask for? Rhaenys Dayne or Arianne Martell?" That depends on the true aim of those spreading the rumours.

"Even if Rhaenys was your natural daughter, she would still have to contend with four legitimate children. Arianne Martell would be the better choice." Why ever does she still feel bothered by those long past events? Lyanna looks away from her husband.

"Indeed. I will speak to my brother." And just like that the heaviness lifts. Rhaegar holds her hand.


	10. x

"It's a wonder your father permitted your absence, my lady," Willas comments softly as Tyta leans towards him with a smile upon her lips, the aftermath of his earlier joke. "Roslin's presence I do understand better." Walder Frey is not at all fond of leaving the fourth of his daughters to her own device.

"I am to keep watch over my sister, my lord. She is young and impressionable." Tyta bats her eyelashes innocently at him, and they both laugh. "Besides that, I thought I might finally persuade you to ask me to a dance."

This easy friendship is not a new development. Willas remembers meeting Tyta when they were both children. Lord Frey's daughter is perhaps the one person of that brood with which he had had the pleasure of having a decent conversation. He is somewhat surprised to find that she is not yet some lordling's lady. Perhaps he should offer for her.

As soon as the thought comes, it is dismissed.

"I have heard that your father has plans to find you a suitable lord." His words seem to shock her, and those warm brown eyes glint for just a moment. "Don't look quite so distressed, my lady. People might think I have offended you."

Of all of Walder Frey's children she is the most devout. Yet her father does not permit her to retreat form the active life of Westeros to solitude and prayer. He had her betrothed to Brynden Tully once. Never mind that the man could have easily been her father. Fortunately the Blackfish would have none of it. Since then Tyta is most often called the Maid.

"Aye, but you know my position on this topic, Willas." If her tone is less than happy, her voice is low enough and her face pleasant enough for it not to be noticed.

The strains of a well known reel ring through the keep. Willas draws to his feet and extends a hand towards her. "Make haste, my lady. I fear our days of frolic and making merry will be soon past us."

Tyta does as he bids, and they take a turn around the floor. She is a good partner, yet not possessing the best skills. But he has taken her here to continue their conversation.

"Will you be going to Dorne soon?" It is common knowledge that the King and Queen will remove to Dorne , Lord Stark too. Most of the important houses, to be sure.

It is a game, Willas knows. Both he and Tyta have spent more than half their lives observing this precarious balance between the powers of Westeros. Words travel fast. "You are worried." His observation is met with a bland smile. "You needn't be. Doran Martell is not unwise."

"Doran Martell does not worry me," she replies shortly. She is not a player in this game, and perhaps for that reason her view is clearer. Willas knows that she does worry. "I worry for my friend."

Squeezing her hand, he allows himself a boyish smile. But her smile turns into a frown. He makes to look behind, wondering what has altered her disposition. Tyta shakes her head gently. "It seems our closeness has been wrongly interpreted." At that he looks anyway. Tully blue orbs stare at him, hurt reflecting in those twin pools. "Perhaps you should ask her for a dance."

"She is a child, Tyta," he says, turning back to her. His grip becomes firmer. Sansa Stark would do better to find a young man her own age to fawn over.

"You have waited until now. That excuse will not hold." Tyta raises her eyebrow at him as if her words have a hidden meaning. "Come, Willas. Do not hurt a maiden's tender feelings," she jokes, breaking from his grasp. "I am sure Rosling must be wanting me by now."

Willas is about to point out that her sister is dancing with Jon Targaryen and isn't likely to look well on her intruding, but Tyta is stubborn in her own way. He knows that she will not come back. Alas, she is taken by Jaime Lannister for the next dance. Well then, there is nothing for it but to gather his courage.

Not even on the field of battle during Robert's rebellion has he been this unsettled. Truth be told he was too young at that time to fully realise the danger. It took a field full of dead bodies to show him there is nothing glorious about war. Since then he has made the acquaintance of apprehension. Why he should feel so at the mere task of inviting a girl to dance is of yet unexplained. How daunting.

Sansa will not refuse. Of that he is certain. And for this he feels guilty. But it is just a dance. Surely she cannot have anything to suffer from it. In a few years she will find a man worthy of her, and she will forget these fancies of hers.

Walking towards her, he almost stops at the hopeful look in her eyes. Rickard Stark gives him a benevolent look, but his concentration is on the conversation he is having with Queen Lyanna. Willas wastes no time.

"My lady, may I have this dance?" he asks, his face a mask of joviality.

The girl breathes in, wonder clear in her features. But Sansa is quick to gather herself. She climbs to her feet and nods at him. Willas cannot help but admire her delicate frame. A tall girl, she will most likely take after her mother and become a tall woman. Most of Lord Eddard's children take after their Tully mother.

Her hand is smooth, her fingers slender. Sansa is elegant and poised. So very much like Margaery. Yet so very different at the same time. If she were more like his sister, Willas does not doubt he would find it easier to stay in her company. Margaery does not look at any man with such adoration as Sansa. Aye, she talks sweet when it is needed, she gives encouragement when she should and she flirts better than any of her brother, but Margaery's heart is nowhere in it.

With Sansa it is another thing altogether. For her a few smiles and a kiss in a darkened hallway won't be enough. She isn't offering Willas a mere flirtation. She would give him her heart if he would let her. And may the gods forgive him, if he could he would do the same.

His mind reminds him that she is a child. But to his heart it does not seem to matter. Hasn't Tyta said this excuse won't hold much longer?

So Willas allows himself a few moments of not thinking, of just being. He can enjoy a beautiful smile. He will enjoy this dance.

And Sansa laughs as he spins her around.


	11. xi

The sept is bathed in smoke. The heady scent of incense has spread through every corner in an attempt to cover the smell of death, of rotting flesh and human misery. Rhaenys keeps her eyes to the floor. She can't quite bear to look at her mother's corpse. To think that the woman was once – not too long ago – alive; to think that this is what becomes of them all eventually, Rhaenys shudders although the warmth of the place shouldn't allow for it. Dorne is always warm, covered in heated sand. Yet for all that Rhaenys feels awfully cold inside.

She never got to ask her mother for the truth. She hates the fact that her courage deserted her. Standing at her side in those last few hours, she might've demanded to know the truth, but she hadn't. Rhaenys turns her gaze to her brother. Aegon's face is flushed and tired, his eyes red-rimmed from all the crying. He is still weeping quietly, his throat too raw to produce any sounds for the moment.

The man she calls father stands in front of them, a little distance away from his children. Arthur Dayne is bent over his departed wife's shell. It almost seems like he's waiting for her to wake up. As if he expects it all to be a bad dream from which he will wake any time now.

He wrote to the King. Rhaenys doesn't know what to think of it. Of course it is not the first time when he does this. The head of House Dayne keeps a flowing correspondence with the Crown. He used to be a Kingsguard after all. And they say the King had always considered him a friend. Perhaps Arthur Dayne thinks himself entitled to care for the King's bastard daughter. That explains it all.

A high-pitched sob erupts from Aegon. The boy has found his voice. Rhaenys leaves her place and takes her brother in her arms. Taller than him, she is also more powerful. The girl embraces the little child, muffling his cries in the folds of her pale dress. She would have thought that by now even Aegon would have lost this urge to cry. Rhaenys can feel tears welling up in her eyes. Sniffing softly she tries her best to keep them at bay. Allowing herself to dwell on it won't help matters any. Besides, Aegon cries enough for the both of them.

At the very least her father will not disappear like uncle Oberyn. Mother's younger brother left as soon as the maester announced there was nothing more to be done for Elia. Perhaps it was his own way of avoiding the truth of the matter. Either way when he comes back, Elia's death will be just as real as his absence from her side. But then again Elia had wanted no one with her. Father had insisted that she allow them to say farewell, but Elia did not wish for her children to witness her passing.

Aegon hadn't understood. He just wanted to climb in bed with his mother and have his hair stroked. That was when he started crying, and he still cries.

"Rhaenys," her father calls, leaving the corpse where it is. "Come. You and Aegon must be tired and hungry by now." They are awake since the crack of dawn.

"I don't want to go," her brother whines, fists clenching in his sister's dress. "I won't leave mother alone!"

But Arthur will have none of that. He picks the boy up, despite his arms flailing. Rhaenys wonders how their father can be so patient. He is tired too. He is hungry too. He is devastated too. Still, Aegon struggles and cries and shouts, and suddenly Rhaenys is glad for father's iron self-control. Had it been her, she is sure Aegon would have been clutching a stinging cheek by now. The baby of the family gets more leeway. It's fascinating the way in which a father and his son bond. Held as he is, Aegon quietens somewhat, opting to muffle his cries in their father's broad shoulder.

Mother would not have allowed him to carry on so. For all her tenderness, Elia had always believed that a spoiled child would grow up rotten. Their father has a different approach. He coddles both his children, holding a tender spot for daughter and son alike. Elia's kisses were only delivered after the candles were blown out. Arthur is more demonstrative in his affection. Even nursing his own grief, he finds it in himself to soothe the children's hurts.

She should contend herself with this, Rhaenys considers, staring longingly after her father – not her father- but she can't. If she's not his, then she needs to know. She needs to know so the guilt will leave her be. Hopefully her anger will fade too. Rhaenys has been angry for a while now. She wants to know that when people call her the daughter of her father, it is because she is a Dayne, not merely because Arthur Dayne took her in.

Doubt. Self-doubt. Deceit. She spies a servants lurking in the shadows. Rhaenys creeps away from her father, with a promise to return soon. Arthur nods at her absent-mindedly, still comforting the son. Rhaenys stops in front of the man, eyes narrowing into slits. "Have I not said that I do not wish to see you again? Begone!" she hisses menacingly.

"M'lady." The man bows respectfully. "I am sorry to have caused you distress upon out last meeting. My apologies."

"Distress?" she repeats dumbfounded. "Distress, you say? If you do not make yourself scarce I shall have my father throw you out on your ear, impertinent wretch. How dare you appear before me?"

"You have the same air of command as your true father. The same stance too. A voice and a disposition very alike to his own." His offer is met with a cold look of disdain. "Think on it, m'lady." His gaze remains fixed on her, something in those dark eyes slithering past her carefully erected walls.

Wrenching her eyes away from him, Rhaenys trots away. Wretched man! He thinks to confuse her. Had she really been another man's daughter, her mother would have told her before dying, wouldn't she? Elia hadn't said a thing.

Nay, the girl thinks. Nay, Arthur Dayne must be her father, else he would not treat her as he does. Arthur Dayne is her father. He is., he is, he is. Rhaenys repeats the words in her head, almost like a mantra. Hurrying her steps, she breaks into a run, lifting her skirts to gain speed.

Arthur she finds seated at the table. Throwing her arms around her father's neck, she lets out a sob. "I love you, papa!"

Gently caressing her wild mane of curls, he smiles in her hair. "And I love you."


	12. xii

Jon leads his horse into a trot, the wolf pup he has picked for himself safely in a soft skin punch. He still marvels at the size of that ball of furs. The pup is strangely quiet, its brothers and sisters were more vocal. But this one does not let out so much as a peep. His mother had held the pup to her chest when Jon came within her room. She cooed softly and said that Jon had been much the same as a babe. Jon calls him Ghost.

He is not the only one to receive a wolf for a gift. His mother too had taken to the she-wolf, the mother of the litter, so it happens that a cage containing the large beast travels along with them.

Father is not exactly pleased with the development. He sometimes stares uncertainly at the direwolf. In fact Jon remembers that only a few days ago his parents had another argument about it. Mother insists that the she-wolf will do nothing, while father fears it may escape its cage and slaughter an innocent.

Yet Jon does not think that will happen. The she-wolf is still sluggish and besides she is well fed in mother's care. True enough she doesn't take well to people coming too close to her, but she does no more than growl softly. It is a mystery why she winded up half-dead in the snow. However it is clear that she is domesticated. People do not bother her, and that may be stranger still. Who would take the time to make a house pet out of a dangerous animal of the North?

Out of all his brothers, it is Rhaegon that seems to like the wolf as much as he does. Jon has seen his brother speaking even to the she-wolf in a soft voice and throwing her strips of cooked meat. Lyanna encourages her sons, truth be told. Aeron is more fond of his sword at this point, but he does not shy away from ruffling Ghost's fur. Alysanna shies away from the she-wolf, but she does adore the pup, and often feeds him milk sweetened with honey despite Jon's protests.

The oldest of the King's children suspects that even his father will warm up the two new additions. There is some danger lurking about though. As Jon well remembers, Rhaegar fear just what ideas his children might get from this. "And what shall you tell them when they'll wish for poisonous snakes as pets, my dear?" he asked his Queen as they supped. Alysanna had shrieked, claiming that she wanted no snakes anywhere near her. Aeron then teased her about the Dornish snakes she would no doubt see soon, and all semblance of gravity was lost.

From behind him Jon hears Robb calling. The Prince slows his horse, waiting for his cousin to catch up. Robb's pup is the biggest of the litter, already rounder and stronger than the others. Why exactly Jon has chosen the smallest of them all, he cannot tell. But something about Ghost called out to him as soon as his eyes stared into twin pools of blood red. Grey Wind is a healthy pup, and will grow up strong, but Jon would not trade Ghost for anything.

"How is Ghost holding up?" Robb asks, his hand going inside his own leather pouch to scratch Grey Wind behind the ears. The pup makes a few sounds of what Jon presumes to be appreciation.

"He's quick to adapt," Jon says by way of response. His own hand searches for the warm ball of fur, and Jon is not surprised to find the wolf asleep, curled into himself. "I am more worried for the she-wolf."

Robb looks back when he mentions the mother of the litter. She is in her cage, head on her paws, eyes closed. Whether she sleeps or not is hard to tell. Robb nods at Jon after a moment. "Sansa insisted that the master see to her wounds. Father was more than prepared to put her out of her misery."

The though sends a shiver down Jon's spine. "I'm glad he did not." His reply wins him an approving smile from the redheaded heir of Winterfell. "Mother seems quite taken with her."

"It's because of her Stark blood." Robb motions to Jon then. "You too. Now we only have to find some dragons for the rest of your family and we can all be glad for our pets."

They both laugh at the absurdity. "When you come to King's Landing, we can search together around the Red Keep. I'm sure we can find something," Jon suggests with an impish grin.

"Or we can let Arya do the searching." At the startled look Jon gives him, Robb burst into deep, rich laughter. "If there is anything remotely dangerous, you can be sure Arya will find it faster than we can draw our swords out."

"I've no doubt." His youngest female cousin is always getting in some sort of trouble, that cannot be denied. However does Lady Catelyn cope with it, Jon cannot fathom. His own sister is more like Sansa, although she does at times enjoy unladylike pursuits like archery.

But unlike little Arya, Jon gets the distinct impression that Alysanna is content in her role of lady and the knowledge that from time to time is may shoot arrows and shame Aeron who is a poor shot unless he concentrates very hard on his task. Of course any such friendly sibling rivalry is conducted under the watchful eyes of their parents. As if one of them might shoot himself in the foot.

"I think Arya will like King's Landing then. There is much trouble to be had, or so Aeron insists." Jon smiles at the image that rises in his mind. May the gods help them all if Arya and Aeron ever get it in their heads to unite. There would be not stopping them. It must be some sort of blessing that most of the time they cannot spend more than a few minutes acting civil with one another.

"If we survive Dorne, " Robb reminds him. "I just wish the circumstances of our visit had been different."

"So do I." A funeral is not exactly what he had hoped for when it came to his first trip to Dorne. But Jon supposes there is nothing for it.

If he were inclined towards contemplation Jon thinks that the abruptness of death would surprise him. Yesterday they were celebrating his nameday and now they are headed towards the burial of a woman universally mourned. It seems that no one can do more than speak of the tragedy that has befallen House Dayne.

But the young rarely think of death if they are not faced with it. To Jon it does seem like immortality is at hand.


	13. xiii

A large family means that the older siblings are often to care for the younger ones. In Walder Frey's family it is, and has always been, the girls that look over the younger brothers and sisters. As one of the older children of her father's Tyta is quite used to taking children in hand. Most of her brothers are little beasts with snot all over their best clothes and food stains on their faces. And greasy little fingers always grabbing at her or whichever of their caretakers happened by. Most often the end would have a Tyta splayed on the floor with some sticky substance or another coating her dress.

To tell the truth, such experiences have made her weary of children as ill-behaved as her brothers. But that is not to say she does not wish for some of her own. Tyta is sure that nurture may vastly improve even the poorest of nature's creations. If only she could meet a man who would have her now.

Lacking a generous dowry is the foremost of her problems. Then, of course, she is no great beauty. She supposes that had she been born with something else than mousy hair and eyes the colour of wood, dark and at best called warm. She might have been forgiven her lack of dowry had she been beautiful. Tyta is also aware that her age does not help matters any. The woman supposes that she should be grateful for what she has, not for what cannot be hers.

When she was flowered and her father started searching for a match, Tyta thought she might yet be the luckiest of her sisters, she dreamed of a knight in shining armour. Instead she got the Blackfish. Tyta can still remember the shock and indignation. But that was nothing in comparison to the utter shame and offence his refusal brought about. A girl too young to know what should wound her worse, she had been crushed. Even now she carried the scars.

Yet one's own problems seem to fade back when faced with a child who should not know such troubles. Tyta finds little Aegon Dayne on the stairs, facing a portrait of his late mother. She knows it is the boy because she has seen him in the sept as the Septon droned on and on about the paradise his mother's soul has found by now. It is a cold comfort; it don't stop the pain or even diminish it.

"May I sit next to you?" she asks in the softest manner possible, knowing that she will startle the poor child anyway.

True enough the boy jumps at the sound of her voice, tear-stained face drawn and pale turning in her direction. He gives her a suspicious look. "Why?"

"I thought you might be lonely." She remembers being lonely after her own mother' death. Even surrounded by Walder Frey's other children she was lonely. She does not sit down next to him, still waiting for his acceptance.

Sniffling the boy wipes at his eyes. "Rhaenys says it is pointless to cry and that I am being a baby. Men don't cry."

Taking it that he won't be offended, Tyta gingerly lowers herself to the ground, gathering her full skirts in one hand. "It is human to grieve," she tells Aegon, keeping in check the impulse to wipe the tears away herself. "When someone we love is no longer with us, we must allow ourselves the time to mourn." She is quiet for a few moments, before adding, "Your sister is wrong, mind you, men do cry."

"Rhaenys doesn't cry," the boy says after listening to her.

The poor girl is probably too shocked to cry. "Some people find it easier to express what they feel." Tyta looks at the portrait, marvelling at the lively colours. "She was a beautiful woman, you mother." There is something decidedly exotic about her eyes.

"She was always sick," he counters, mouth straightening into a mutinous line. "Father said she would get better. She never did."

Elia Martell's precarious health is not unknown throughout Westeros. Tyta has heard of it even as a little girl. But the woman is dead now, and she's left behind two children who need a mother. She should tell him that it is for the gods to decide who survives and who does not, but Tyta cannot bring herself to do it. Instead she wraps her arms around him, surprised to discover how slight he feels in her arms. His small fingers curl into her dress, material imprisoning his digits.

"Come. They must be looking for you by now," she coaxes, managing to get them both to their feet. The time has come for her to find Willas. She is certain that he has had enough of Oberyn by now.

This is one of the matters Tyta cannot quite wrap her head around. The friendship between Willas and Oberyn is strange to behold, even more so when the two Houses have some feud or another dividing them. It seems that only those two actively try to find a solution. One of these days the snake will bite and Willas will be in trouble then. Contemplating such a bleak future only brings her heartache.

Tyta supposes she has something of her father's distrust buried deep within her. After years of living with such a man she is not at all astonished. Not every one of Walder's girls had Roslin's sweet disposition and natural inclination towards gentleness. But Tyta counts that as a personal success. Roslin's innocent view of the world is of her own doing. Since Roslin was in leading strings, Tyta has made it her business to protect her from the harshness of the world. Why? Not even she knows the answer, but that juts the way it is with them.

Aeon breaks from her and runs up the stairs and down the hall, disappearing from view. Tyta is content to follow at her own pace. She can do no more than this for the child, and it is enough. He still has a father, who unlike her own, does love his children. Confident that her part is over Tyta thinks to find Willas. She has questions for him.

Instead of Willas she meets someone quite unexpected at supper. Oh, Willas is there, but all his attention is demanded by the oldest of the Stark daughter. They are pretty as a picture. But Tyta cannot think on them too long because before she can utter so much as a word of inquiry before her stand father and son.

"She is the one, father," Aegon says excitedly, as if she were some sort of fairy queen.

"Lord Dayne," she greets. She cannot quite find her footing here.

"My Lady. Aegon tells me I must inquire you name." And he dares a smile.


	14. xiv

Her mother is in the next room with Lord Stark of Moat Cailin. There is another branch of the Stark family in Winterfell, up North. It is the Starks of Winterfell that are actually the main branch. Brandon Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin is a minor lord, his house likely to die with him. Or so mother says. Elenei doesn't understand why exactly her mother spends so much time with the man. She only knows that she is not allowed to go into those rooms if her lady mother entertains Lord Stark.

They speak louder sometimes, loud enough for her to hear. Their voices carry through the hall, despite the doors being shut. It is how Elenei learns that Lord Stark's wife has lost yet another child. Lady Barbrey, Elenei think she is called, has had a great number of children. Yet despite her best efforts none of them ever lived past the age of seven. The last of their children had been a boy. He was born dead according to Lord Stark. It is clear to Elenei that the man blames his wife. However she cannot fathom the reason for which her mother is his confidante. Why would she listen to his sad tale?

"You are a lion," Cersei tells her daughter on any given day. "Others may think that you are not, because of your dark hair and those eyes of your father's. But Elenei, no matter your looks, you have the heart of a lion. A Lannister through and through. My dark lioness."

It is absurd. Elenei is a Baratheon. Uncle Stannis has repeatedly named her one. Yet her mother insists that she is greater than any stag. "Lions do not mind the opinions of sheep." So Elenei is at a loss. But then again it does not matter.

A maiden does not keep her name for long. Mother already speaks of marriage. She claims Elenei should have suitors from important houses, but all her life she has been overlooked, her existence close to forgotten for some reason.

Her own grandfather wilfully ignores her existence when he visits her mother. Tywin Lannister gives her an occasional cold look, and moves past her in the hall without so much as a word. Her mother once tried to get him to acknowledge her, but the old lion refused, To this day it is a sour subject between daughter and father.

Uncle Jaime writes to her sometimes. Mother insists that he is fond of her. He asks about her lessons with the Septa, and sends her pressed flowers and fragile dolls. Cersei is delighted every time a new present makes its way into Elenei's hands. But Elenei would like it even better if her uncle visited more. She has only seen him a handful of times in all the years of her life. Alas, he keeps his distance, choosing to send written word rather than come and see his niece and his sister. By now Elenei had gotten used to it.

She has another uncle, Tyrion. He is a dwarf and mother does not like him. Grandfather usually brings is rightly fond of him. Uncle Tyrion doesn't act like she is some sordid secret that needs to be covered. In fact he understands her very well. Tyrion is witty and funny; he knows many tales, and is perfectly content to stay with her and speak of them when she embroiders. She really did not think it was possible for a man to memorise so many stories and reproduce them with such wit and style as employed by this other uncle of hers.

There are times when people look at her with pity. As if she has need of their pity. Elenei is forever bothered by some whispers here and there. But most of all she cannot abide her mother staring at her with the same pity. There is no doubt in her mind that mother loves her, she simply wishes her looks would not make her want to weep.

And anyway, why must she seek a man to wed? Elenei has no desire to take care of a stranger's home and raise his children. She can hardly stand it when the pages whistle after her. One of these days she will tell mother, if only to get them to leave her alone.

The only problem is that mother can become a bit violent where she is concerned. When she was smaller a servant girl accidentally dropped a cup of hot tea on Elenei's dress, burning her legs. There was no damage to speak of. Elenei herself needed only a few moments to stop crying. But Cersei would not forget the matter. She had the girl tied and flogged all the while yelling at the miserable creature, promising all sorts of punishments.

It was only thanks to uncle Stannis that the girl escaped with her life. Even now Elenei fears to go with her problems to Cersei's door. She tends to exaggerate. There was hardly any need to beat the girl to unconsciousness then, there is hardly any need to harm the pages now. If anything Elenei thinks she should be able to take care of matters herself. If she cannot, the there is always uncle Stannis. The man takes care of her as if he was her father.

Between him, uncle Jaime and uncle Tyrion, Elenei almost feels complete. That void inside of her is filled by their kind words, presents and presence in her life. She has mother, she has them, and for now it is enough. If only mother agreed. But Cersei has her own mind which no one may change.

There is a solution to every problem. Elenei does think that if she searches long and hard enough she will find a way to please everyone. There is so much she does not know, so many secrets the world keeps from her. How can they expect her to play her part if she does not know which that pert is.

Cersei exits the room she had been in for quite some time and seems surprised to see her daughter lingering in the hallway. "What are you doing here, Elenei?" she asks, pulling the door after her. She comes closer to the girl and tries not to smile when Elenei holds up a letter.

"Uncle Jaime wrote again. I thought you would want to know. Her confession is met with smiles from Cersei and sparkling eyes. The letter is out of her hands before she can say anything else. Shrugging, Elenei waits for her mother to scan its contents.

Whatever her brother writes, Cersei finds interesting and worth reading. Elenei isn't quite sure why this seems a bit strange to her. Mother rarely shows interest in men, if they are not Jaime or someone who can help with something.

"He shall come to visit."


	15. xv

Viserys sighs for the hundredth time as Daenerys twirls a lock of her hair and smiles at Robb Stark yet again, perhaps for the billionth time in the past hour. "We are still officially in mourning," he notes dryly, discreetly tugging on the folds of his sister's dress. Normally she amuses him greatly. But at the moment such is not the case. "Do you think you can manage an appropriately grieving expression, sister? At least until you are in your own rooms."

Daenerys is at that age when she is just discovering her charms. Naturally she wants to see how far she may take the flirtation. And Robb Stark is not helping the situation. He only encourages Daenerys. Viserys shakes his head. He will not convince his sister to stop what she is doing so he might as well go talk to his brother. He knows Rhaegar has been wanting to speak to him, Lyanna hinted as much the last time they got the chance to sit down together.

"Whatever you do, act with discretion," he finally says, letting go of his sister's arm. "If you are determined to make a spectacle, I won't be the one to stop you."

"Don't be such a wet blanket," she replies. "This grieving process is tedious. I hardly even knew Lady Dayne."

That is true enough. Lady Dayne has never been particularly close to the younger children of Aerys. Then again it is hardly surprising as Lord and Lady Dayne did not leave Starfall for the past six or seven years, if Viserys has mastered counting – which, to be sure, he has.

He leaves Daenerys where she is and starts towards where he knows the King and Queen to be. While there have been rumours, and an ineffable tension has taken over, nothing is certain. Nothing ever is. Yet politics is not something that poses problems as far as he is concerned. Viserys takes a moment to look back at Daenerys. Pleased to see her in conversation with one of the matrons he continues on his way through the gardens. Starfall is a lovely place. But it is so very hot. Dragonstone is blessedly cooler.

He finds his brother in the shade, but his Lady is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she is the children, as she does enjoy spending time with them when she has the chance. "Brother," Viserys greets, noting with some satisfaction that he is now almost as tall as his King. For the longest time he used to loom over both his younger siblings. Now it's only Daenerys that he towers over. "You wished to speak with me."

"Indeed," he confirms, inviting him to sit on the stone bench. The cane his brother carries taps the ground. It's a series of short beats that are for all intents and purposes silent. Viserys know Rhaegar well enough to see he is troubled. "I wish I did not have to burden you."

The confession strikes Viserys as odd. To the best of his knowledge his brother has done the exact opposite. "After our mother died, for some time I wished to follow them to the afterlife. I did not think you would care enough. After all, for years you were blind to the treatment she received from father." Looks are exchanged between the two of them. Rhaegar looks as if he might interrupt, but Viserys shakes his head. "I did not understand why you did not do anything. You were the one father might have actually listened to."

"Would that it were true," Rhaegar whispers. No doubt he is remembering incidents from the past. "I did not come between them because it would have solved nothing. Cold as it seems to you, our father could not be inflicted on another woman. I did what could be done."

Viserys does understand. His father taking a bride from a noble house and mistreating her would have only given the lords cause to rise against him. He has dug his own grave anyway. "His reign could have ended that much sooner."

"And our lives with it. At that time, I had little support and even less of that in men and weapons. House Targaryen would have been obliterated." All in all, him marrying a Stark, and then setting about gathering forces and creating alliances has worked in their favour. "I have tried to make this as easy on you as possible." But it was not easy at all. "I lost them too, Viserys, only I lost them faster."

"Whatever you ask of me, I will do." He bows his head. For a moment he wants to be angry at this man. But he can't. "So? Why is it that you apologise to me, and not tell me the truth instead?" At this point what could it hurt? So long as his head stays on his shoulders, Viserys is happy enough to follow Rhaegar's instructions.

"We need an alliance to Dorne," Rhaegar starts. "Elia's death may give rise to a series of rumours that only she alone would have had the proper credibility. Without her, Dorne must be appeased by different means."

"But she is not your daughter." The look of surprise on Rhaegar's face has him smiling. "For a time you kept her in the midst of your children. I might have been younger, but no less hard of ear than I am now. A marriage then?"

"We could arrange a match between yourself and Arianne Martell. She is rumoured, and confirmed to be a beautiful young woman. The Martells will protect her position if she is your betrothed." His explanation is met with a cool stare from the younger brother. "I could order you to do it."

"I could still refuse. I have nothing to lose by it." A lie. He could lose his titles and income. The smile on Rhaegar's face shows his amusement. "But I won't. I suppose I do not have to wed her right away."

"Not for some time. We must make the proposal first." If he finds the reticence worrying he does not say so. Rhaegar simply goes on. "You are no longer a child, Viserys. We all have our duty. The question is, are you prepared to do yours?"

"As I'll ever be," Viserys replies. The cane knocks against his leg to signal that Rhaegar will have him serious just now. "Very well, I am prepared to do what must be done." At worst he will have to spend a few nights with her every fortnight or so. Rebelling against his brother is not an option he wants to consider. "I don't suppose you will re-enact the treaty that brought Dorne into the fold and have Daenerys wedded to-" he pauses to think, "-say, Oberyn Martell."

"I am, I hope, not so cruel. Oberyn Martell is more satisfied with his lovers," Rhaegar answers.


	16. xvi

Alysanna Targaryen is good with her sword. Willas advises her to widen her stance, carefully observing the balance. The only unfortunate thing is that she is – much like her mother – a slight person, slim and short. She won't ever be able to wield a great-sword properly. But thin weaponry, like the Braavosi sword the girl wielded suited her just fine.

"Mother is convinced I have only to gain by learning these exercises," she tells him, her stance changing. "Arya said she wants to learn too, but Lady Catelyn is reluctant to allow it, though her husband seems unbothered."

Willas can well imagine that little hellion with a sword in her hand. "I am certain Lady Stark had her reasons for disagreeing."

"You should teach Sansa how to use that dagger mother gave her," Alysanna notes gently. She stabs through the air, feet dancing to a silent tune.

"Sometimes, my lady, you observe too much." There is little need to censor himself around Alysanna. She is not a player in the game – too young and too innocent. "It would be improper to monopolise that much of the lady's time."

Serious eyes regard him with disbelief. "Then make it proper, my Lord Tyrell. It is a simple matter." Coming from the mouth of a child it does sound quite so. "Why do you think you were sent to Winterfell, if not for the purpose of tying a more meaningful relationship with House Stark?"

"That, my lady, was before you were born." Glory and riches. And riches and glory. That is all his father wants. It matters little how it is obtained. A marriage into the Targaryen line would be beneficial for all his house. If it be his sister or his that weds, that is secondary in importance. Willas knows better than to sigh.

He doesn't expect the petite lady to start laughing, but she does. Her titters hit him full on, leaving him dazed and confused. A child is laughing at him. "Do not tell me, my lord, that they wish to wed the two of us. I should like to put any man in the position of waiting for me to be ready for marriage."

She is not unlike Sansa in thinking, yet nor is she like Arya. While the youngest Stark girl shuns the idea of marriage and children. her older sister longs to be a wife and d=someday a mother. Princess Alysanna seems truly content with her current position. She does not show an aversion of the institution of matrimony, yet she will not talk seriously of it.

"Any man would be fortunate to wait on you," is the natural reply, the only one Willas can think of giving.

"Fortunate, aye," she agrees with a sharp nod and a grin. "But not happy, my lord. I am told men are not very patient creatures, and I fear I shall be unready for many more years."

"We all have our weaknesses, princess." Wise beyond her years, Willas rather thinks it the influence of her mother. Queen Lyanna is strict, but loving and devoted to her children.

"You do not answer me. Are we to be married?" Alysanna insists.

"That would not be suitable at all, my princess," a new voice interrupted. From under the shadow of a tall tree, the daughter of Lord Dayne watched the two of them. "It would be best to wed a man not below your own station. A prince."

Some named the young woman daughter of the King. But looking at her, Willas could not read anything in her features that might point to Rhaegar Targaryen being her father. She was tall too, much too tall, speaking perhaps of a height shared by her parents. Queen Lyanna was not quite tall. Her daughter followed the pattern.

"Lady Dayne," Willas greeted with something icy in his voice. She did not inspire trust to him. "Should I be offended?"

"I did not mean to offend, my lord," she apologised, voice as sweet as a snake's poison. "I merely wished to point out that the princess should pay mind to the words she speaks." She bowed her head, dark curls moving in the breeze. "Forgive me if I spoke out of turn."

"How gracious you are, Lady Dayne," Alysanna said, her face breaking in a smile. "Lady Dayne must know that I was merely teasing my Lord Tyrell. He is a stubborn man who deserves to be questioned on the more peculiar of his decisions."

"I misunderstood the situation." Rhaenys Dayne steps out into the sun. "Apologies, Lord Tyrell." Yet her eyes are cold and devoid of any true feelings. "I hope you will not hold those rash words against me."

"I would not dream of it, my lady." Willas bows in a show of respect. Her stare is disconcerting. Somehow he fears to leave the princess alone with this other girl.

Alysanna blinks slowly. She might be able to feel the change in the air. Willas steps somewhat before her, as if to hide her behind him, to offer her protection. She sits down on a small bench, and invites the other woman to join her. "Come. Let us sit."

Rhaenys steps around him and sits to Alysanna's right. Willas takes the sit on her left. He thinks of anything that might help him remove her from here. But the lady seems to be one step ahead of him. "My lord, are you not at all concerned for your Frey lady?"

"Why would I be? Tyta Frey is not a woman I need worry about." His eyes narrow.

"Ah. I thought that much. Yet I am told that some decisions are better taken with a clear head. I would not wish her hurt by my father's grief." She smiles kindly. The hints are not lost on Willas.

Suspicion creeps over him. Tyta is a smart woman. But Rhaenys knows her father best. He weavers. Willas wonders if she should speak to his friend. She is a woman for all her pretence at a higher calling, she is very much desirous of a family of her own. "I trust the lady to judge the situation however she will," he finally says, cautious though he is. Tyta won't welcome his unsolicited opinions.

Lord Dayne is not what one would call a young man. But he is from a respectable family and he is of a stable income. More than that he has heirs. For Tyta it is important as she is not certain she may be capable of bearing many children at her age.

Yet even if Tyta does get it in her head to marry the man, Arthur Dayne has just lost his wife. He will not wed at least for half a year more. His daughter must have it wrong. Perhaps her mother's death had affected her more greatly than she lets on.

"As you say," Rhaenys replies.


	17. xvii

_The woman, whom he somehow knows, sits straight atop her brown horse. She is an elegant rider; anyone can tell by the way she moved herself and the beast. Her fingers grip the reins firmly and she steers the animal to the left. The frame of her body is lithe and supple, her waist narrow and her legs long. Yet her face is hidden from view by a curtain of rich, curly hair._

_Even so, perched atop the branch, Rhaegon can still tell it is his aunt Barbrey. There is no mistaking the midnight black ringlets or those thin, long fingers. Rhaegon watches curiously as she slides off the horse, booted feet touching the wet grass. The sound of a silver bell ringing pierces the thick silence. The Prince hadn't realised until now just how quiet it is. The atmosphere grows unsettling. A harsh wind blows from the north as if to scold and chide the hills and valleys, beating furiously against that which stands in its way. Rhaegon leans forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman's face so he might be assured that she is indeed who he thinks her to be. The branch creeks softly with his weight._

_Time stands still, everything stops breathing. Not even the wind blows anymore. The stillness brings with it panic for the boy. He tries to pull himself away from the invisible clutch of whatever holds him back, but it's to no avail at all. He is stuck._

_And then, as if to make matters worse, the sound of bone splinting reaches his ears. He has heard it before. On a battlefield, long ago – dream-years ago. But this is not one or two, or even three small cracks. It is hundreds of them. The woman turns around of suddenly unsteady feet and he can finally see the front of her dress is bathed in blood. Her face is bruised, red stains her lips, and her neck is angled oddly, one arm uneven as if it'd been twisted. But that is not what scares Rhaegon; it is not what makes his heart beat like a galloping steed or his mind numb itself._

_Her eyes chill the very soul in him. They are not angry, nor do they accuse. They are not red or icy blue. They are empty. Completely devoid of any human feeling. She does not show sorrow, or pain, or anything that can be expressed in words. But it frightens him even more than the prospect of meeting the Stranger._

_She stretches her arms out, both the good one and the bent. Somehow, he does not understand it himself, Rhaegon finds himself flying to her. That is when he realises he is not a boy at all. He is a sort of bird, a raven perhaps. Cold, dry hands come upon his, tightening as a vice. He manages to croak out a cry, wings trying to stretch in flight, but her hold is unrelenting. And the she squeezes._

_His small body cannot take much of the pressure. Rhaegon opens his beak to bring harm to these hands that will not free him, yet the first contact with her skin bring bile up his throat. The stench, how could he have not smelled it? The blood is thick in her veins, and dried, and his attacks have no effect on her. Even more desperate at this point, Rhaegon attempts to tell her who he is, thinking it might matter. Nothing but weak little cries make it past his opened beak._

_Looking up he sees a red smile painting her lips._

Rhageon wakes with a starts, a dying scream on his lips. He is breathing hard, greedily swallowing gulp of air. "Gods," he hisses at the pain in his chest. At least he is safe now with the darkness surrounding him. These nightmares of his are not getting any better despite the remedies he's been taking. Nightshade should have helped.

The door creeks, scaring him half out of his wits, but he calms down when he hears the voice of his sister. "Did you have another night terror?" she asks softly , her steps beating rhythmically against the floor in the total darkness. Alysanna takes his hand, and climbs into his bed, the mattress dipping under the added weight. This is far from proper.

"Anna, you shouldn't be here," Rhaegon chides, when in his mind he raises hymns to the gods, thanking them for his sister. "Did I wake the whole house?"

"Nay." She pushes against his shoulders, obliging him to recline. "Do you want to talk about it?"

They remain together in silence as Rhaegon debates the matter in his mind. "Not on this night. You should go to your own rooms." He hates admitting to his weakness. He loathes needing to be comforted after a bout of this strange illness.

"I'll go after you fall asleep," Alysanna assures him. Aeron is her favourite brother, but she is always willing to sit awhile with Rhaegon and read to him out of the tome of legends, or ride with Jon when he invites her to. There is a goodness in her, an intrinsic part of her soul. "Are you pleased we will be heading hone on the morrow?" she asks lightly.

"As pleased as I could ever be," he replies, shifting his position slightly. "I am not very much at ease here."

"And somehow it is not the heat that bothers you so." She is good in her guesses, if indeed she is simply guessing and not speaking of her own feelings.

Nay, it is Lord Dayne's daughter. She looks at them as if she knows a secret and it amuses her greatly. Now, Rhaegon cannot see her looking, but that is how her stares feel upon his skin. "The sooner we leave, the better I shall feel." At least in King's Landing his nightmares are not quite so frequent. Here there has been not one night without is own personal terror accompanying it.

His sister pats his shoulder gently and Rhaegon is now calm enough to pretend sleep. Alysanna had not yet learned to distinguish the real from the false, and Rhaegon has years of practice on feigning slumber. His mother used to stay with him after his nightmares first began, and when he was old enough to understand that he was only burdening her further, Rhaegon asked that she only stay until he fell asleep again. But most of the time his sleep was feigned to spare her a few hours of rest.

Floorboards moan as his sister makes her way out of his room. Rhaegon does not stir. The door is closed and he is once again alone, left to think on the meaning of his dreams. Has something happened to his aunt? Is something amiss in the North?

Only time may tell. Rhaegon tosses and turns for the rest of the night.


	18. xviii

She feels wretched. Tyta supposes she has no one to blame but herself. She takes a gulp of water. She hopes it won’t make her sick. There is very little her stomach seems to be able to handle and it makes her worry. This situation is not natural, of that she is sure. At first her mind tells her it is a natural consequence of her actions, but there is hardly any other sign than the constant nausea. And that could indicate any other number of things than a babe growing in her womb. Tyta gives Roslin a wary look/ “Has anyone noticed?”

“Hardly, but I don’t think your luck will hold.” The younger of the two seems bent convincing the other to do the right thing. “Some of them are wondering at your absence. If you won’t take care of yourself then I will.”

“You needn’t worry. My stomach has never been the strongest. I am sure it is some thing I ate. Or perhaps a mild case of something.” Anything but the conception of another human being. It is not supposed to be like this. The Seven help her, but she has not missed her usual blood, nor does she crave anything. The problem is that she cannot eat anything at all. Whatever she manages to swallow only come back with a vengeance. And she does not grow, her middle is still trim after four moons. It cannot be a child.

“Then let the master have a look at you,” Roslin insists.

“I will not-“ Tyta begins, but she cannot continue. Bile rises in her throat and she starts coughing. Roslin is at her side, wet kerchief pressed to her temple. 

“You cannot go on like this. Child or no child, it is killing you. I will not allow it.” There is determination in her sister’s eyes, and Tyta is almost afraid to ask what she plans. Luckily, Roslin does not leave her wondering. “I know a woman in the village, I’m sure that she will give us some tansy if we give her some coin.”

“Nay!” Tyta refuses fiercely. If there is a child she will not murder it. “I am certain I have no need of tansy or moon tea or anything of the sort.”

Pursing her lips, Roslin hands her the cup again. It is clear from her face that she does not believe for one moment the possibility of it not being a babe. But she does not mention it again. “Willas has written,” she finally says. “Do you want me to read the letter to you?”

“There is no need. I am sure it is nothing pressing.” She takes a salted cracker from the small plate Roslin has brought and nibbles on it. She hopes this one will stay down. 

Yet pressing it should have been, for the gods are not nearly as merciful as Tyta was hoping. It seems their dear father is more observant than most would think. Walder Frey storms inside the rooms, followed by a portly woman with a harsh face. “That’s the one,” he says, pointing to Tyta who is still abed. “Out with you,” he tells Roslin, grabbing her wrist and shoving her away so the other woman can take her place. 

The heavy woman who had started poking around Tyta’s middle is the mother of one of her many bastard siblings, but Tyta does not know which. Yet she knows by the look on the woman’s face what she is searching for. Without a words she goes to Lord Walder and whispers something to him. Tyta swears she’s never seen that shade of red cross her father’s face until this point. It’s rather fetching on him, and she is almost amused. Or she would be if she valued her skin less. 

“Ah! You wretch! You thought you could deceive me,” he growls at his daughter, taking slow, deliberate steps towards her bedridden form. “No better than your whore of a mother. Whose bastard is it? Whose?” He grabbed her shoulders, shaking the already trembling woman. 

Tyta keeps her mouth firmly shut upon the matter even as her father resorts to other means of prying the information out of her. Yet she won’t be cowed by a few slaps – even if they sting, even if the bruises last for weeks and weeks. When he finally realises she will not give him a name, Walder yells for the woman to come and tie her to the bed. “I will find out who the father is, and you best pray he takes pity on you, or else your little bastard won’t see the light of day. We already have enough mouths to feed.” He asks her once more if she will tell him the name of her lover. Tyta shakes her head, too frightened that her lips will open on their own and she’ll divulge it anyway.

In the end it is Roslin who gives their father a name. “She has been long corresponding with him,” Roslin vows, not stopping even when Tyta begs her to. “And they were together in Dorne, too.” Satisfied, Walder leaves on sister in the care of the other.

“What have you done?” Tyta hisses, though she cannot recount a face to go with the name Roslin said, her eyes red rimmed from the crying. “What have you done, little sister?”

“I believe I’ve just saved you and the life of my niece or nephew.” The younger female sits on the edge of the bed. “I don’t pretend to understand how you could have been so careless, but here it is.”

“He is not the father,” Tyta finally says. “He is not my child’s father.” Tears are streaming down her reddened face.

“Be that as it may, I have written to Willas Tyrell on your behalf. Perhaps it is time to test that friendship you boast of.” Roslin leans in. “If nothing else he will know who the father is. Don’t worry sister, I shan’t leave you in their hands.”

By then, Tyta has figured out much of the plan, or about as much as she can without having to ask for further information. “Father will kill you when he finds out.”

“Aye, but it’ll take him at least half a moon’s turn to figure it out, and Edmure come in a couple of days.” Then she smiles.

“You’re mad,” Tyta whispers, not knowing if she should be elated or seriously worried for her sister’s mental health. “Old Hoster Tully won’t ever allow it.”

“Even old Hoster Tully can do nothing to break a marriage if it is blessed by a septon and consummated,” the other points out softly. “Olyvar will help too. You need only tell him what you need when he comes to this room on the morrow. He could get a message to the child’s father. Or I could.”


	19. xix

The dishevelled sight of a redhead running through the halls should have alerted the servants had any on them been there to see her. As it is Sansa rushes down the stairs barely minding Lady who hurries in her wake, her too small legs not quite managing the job to the pup's satisfaction. As she flees down the stairs, Sansa hears the whimpers of her tiny companion and the compassionate nature of her heart makes it a duty to turn around and gather the she-wolf in her arms. "We must hurry, Lady," she tells the pet. "And we must be silent."

If her lady mother was alerted of her conduct at this moment, Sansa is sure she would be locked in her room with no supper. So she does her best not to allow any sounds to escape, moving rapidly but noiselessly. Her slippers are of a soft silk, not meant to be worn outside which point they prove as soon as she steps into a puddle in her haste to reach the stables. Sansa yelps as the water permeates her shoes, but she is determined not to be deterred. The wolf echoes its mistress' resolve, or so it seems to Sansa.

She creeps into the stables and hides behind a bale of hay. The young girl crouches and makes herself as small as possible against her cover, shushing her pet once more. The she-wolf obeys her. One of the stable hands is preparing a horse and suddenly the situation is that more real. Willas is busy with the saddle and the man helping him seems in a bit of a hurry. He will leave without even saying goodbye. Sansa bristles at the thought. That shan't happen, not while she is able to put a stop to the whole matter!

Jumping out of her hiding spot, Sansa rushes over to Willas, grabbing him by the sleeve of his tunic, not carrying at all about the display she makes for the eyes of the stable hand present. "Don't go," she almost begs with her words, what her eyes are already pleading.

"Sansa," Willas forms the name uneasily. He pulls himself away gently, hands coming to hold her by the shoulders. "Whatever are you doing out in this weather?" He must be referring to the drizzle outside. It has started after she came in. "Yorik, you may leave." Thankfully one of them still has enough presence of mind not to give much of the affair away. The common people love nothing better than to talk about their betters. Sansa, though, is not that person, so it falls to Willas. "And you've brought Lady too."

But Sansa has lost her ability to make small talk. "Willas," she calls his attention away from her pet, peeved at his lack of response to her request. "Whatever she wrote to you, don't leave. Please!"

It all started with a mysterious letter addressed to Willas. After reading that wretched piece of paper, he had locked himself with her father and grandfather in the solar, and there they had held council for a few long hours. And now he's leaving. "At least tell me why," she pleads once again. "Why are you leaving? Have I displeased you?" It has all been going so well between the two of them. After Dorne she really thought he wouldn't shy away from her. But he's doing it again. "Why?" her voice breaks with the tears running down her pallid cheeks.

"Oh, Sansa." Willas releases her shoulders and wipes away a tear. "I have to go, but you needn't shed any tears for my leaving. There now, sweetling, don't cry." He takes her in his arms, a gesture meant to offer her comfort, but to Sansa it produces only more pain. This contact serves to remind her that however good he is to her, there is still a more important person in his life for whom he will leave. But then he raises her hopes, "I shall come back."

"Who is it that you have to leave for?" Alysanna has told her some time ago that she needn't worry over Willas' affections, that they are quite secure. But even Alysanna would change her mind now. She does realise he won't tell her by the look in his eyes. "But you promise to come back?"

"You have my word," he tells her, gently brushing back her windblown hair.

But leave her he does anyway. Sansa has to grit her teeth and bear the pain and hang onto his promise. Willas won't have her accompanying him to the gates. He insists that she go back to her rooms and wait for his return. There is nothing to do but follow his instructions. Sansa turns her back on him and with a heavy heart slips quietly into her room, Lady still in her arms. This is the first time when she feels she is being dealt an injustice by fate. Is it so much that she asks for. Under the covers, she finally lets go of her grief and it all pours out. Tears wet her pillow and sobs are muffled into the fragrant material. Nay, it is not fair, but it is life. Somehow she manages to fall asleep.

Of course, the gods must be in a mood to see suffering of their subject for the very first thing Sansa sees when she wakes is Arya standing at her bedside. It would not be strange at all, if her sister wasn't Arya and if they actually got along. As it is Sansa school her features and asks in a voice which she hopes will puts fear into her sister's bones, "What are you doing here, horse face? Have you grown tired of the stables already?"

Arya simply grins. "I saw you, stupid." Sansa blanches and it must confirm her sister's suspicions, for the younger Stark girl leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "Don't worry, I haven't told mother that you snuck off to meet with your suitor."

"I have done no such thing," Sansa replies angrily, trying to defend herself. "You have nothing to tell mother."

"Haven't I?" She holds up the ruined slippers. "Stupid, at least cover your tracks."

"That coming from the one who returned with her dress drenched in mud," the older sister points out, haughtily raising her chin. "Scamper off, Arya!"

"Very well then, I'm sure mother will be interested in these." It is to no avail that Sansa tried to pry the slippers away from Arya's grasp.

"Don't!" A compromise is needed. "What do you want of me?" Sansa questions, grudgingly accepting her defeat.

"Oh, nothing much. If you do the stupid embroidery on my handkerchief, then I will give these back to you." Out of all the things to ask!

Sansa almost bursts into peels of laughter. Arya must be in real trouble with their Septa.


	20. xx

Shireen comes bearing gifts for her cousin. Elenei received the dark haired girl with open arms and a wide smile. "Cousin!" She rushes to her uncle's daughter much to her mother's chagrin. Behind her Cersei chides the two for unladylike behaviour. Neither listens; they are too busy dancing around in circles and kissing each other's cheeks. "You're taller," Elenei notes.

Of the two of them Elenei is older and taller and fairer of skin. This is, of course, due to the great care Cersei takes of her daughter. Elenei is not foolish enough not to have formed an idea as to why her mother insists that she always look her best. She hopes her daughter will attract a suitor, preferably of royal blood and with a big purse.

"And you have grown lovelier in my absence," Shireen replies, without the slightest hint of resentment. That is what Elenei loves best about little Shireen. "Some hedge knight might see you and when he decides he can't live without you, he'll steal you away. I warn you, cousin, lock your door tightly."

They laugh together. Cersei comes up to kiss Shireen's cheek. She only plants her lips on the smooth white skin of her healthy looking cheek. The other she pointedly ignores. Elenei knows her mother is repulsed by the sight of greyscale. Cersei arranges Shireen's scarf so it may better hide the hideous sight from the rest of the world. "You have grown into a young lady," the lioness sweetens her words and smoothes the silky material of the scarf.

It is only Elenei that knows how her mother laughed when she heard that Selyse Florent and Stannis Baratheon not only did not get the heir they hoped for, but their daughter – already shaping up to be unremarkable – has somehow contacted a wasting disease. Her mother even japed after first seeing Shireen with her face ruined that they ought to have the child sent North so she may frighten the Wildlings. Of course, she did so in the privacy of the rooms with Lord Brandon Stark in attendance. Her mother could be very cruel. More than once she'd tried to encourage her daughter to act in a violent manner in order to solve her problems.

"It is not that I think her a threat to you," Cersei would tell Elenei at times about one young woman or another – usually about Sansa Stark or Margaery Tyrell – as they retreated for the evening, "but her family, aye, they are a threat. They would push their daughter straight into the lap of one of the princes." Her mother is obsessed with the marriage of Rhaegar's male children. She insists that if not Jon Targaryen, then one of the others should be caught in her daughter's charm.

When Elenei tries to propose Shireen as a match, Cersei almost chokes on her wine. "That gargoyle? Prey be serious, my dear." Elenei resents that. Shireen is young and sweet; it is certainly not her fault that she fell victim to an illness. She thinks it crude of her mother to joke at the expense of an innocent girl.

Uncle Stannis greets Elenei and her mother with his usual reserved manner. Selyse smiles at Elenei, but all that Cersei receives is a glare. "Have you heard the news about Lord Stark?" Selyse asks.

"What of that old wolf?" Cersei her off, taking Elenei by the arm. "Has he finally left Winterfell to his heir?"

"The Queen's father is hale and hearty. I am referring to Lord Stark of Moat Cailin." Her aunt seems not to notice the way her mother pales. Elenei squeezes Cersei's hand, waiting to hear what has happened. "It seems that Lord Stark has recently become a widower."

"What happened to Lady Stark?" Elenei asks, her stomach dropping. Lord Stark is always visiting her mother. Her mother always welcomes the man.

"Apparently she recently suffered a miscarriage," Selyse offers sympathetically. She has had her fair share of miscarried babes. Yet her eyes grow hard. "They say she took a horse and went to the swamps. Perhaps something spooked her horse, or mayhap it was intentional that the horse was spooked; either way, the lady was thrown off and broke her back in the fall."

"That is horrible," Cersei remarks softly. "It would have been kinder if she'd broken her neck."

"Indeed," Selyse agrees, as the four of the walk behind Stannis and his Maester. "They say she woke up in great pain and no matter how much milk of the poppy was given to her she died in great agony."

"Lady Stark had no children, did she?" Shireen questioned, her small hand wrapping around Elenei's. "It would have been that much sadder if she'd left them without a mother."

"Barbrey failed in the only task that had been appointed to her," Cersei states mildly. "It is a lady's duty and privilege to give heirs to her lord." Selyse agrees half-heartedly, knowing that Cersei intended to needle her with those words. After all, she too has failed numerous times to give her husband a son and heir.

Elenei pulls Shireen behind their mothers. "Let the grownups have their talks. Tell me what you have been doing."

"Oh, I am very well," Shireen replies. "I have received many books from my father, and mother has ordered me too many dresses by half, yet neither of them will tell me why I must take on the new Dancing Master mother has found."

"That sounds wonderful," Elenei laughs gaily. "Perhaps you should ask them for a mare too, one of those beauties they raise in Highgarden."

"If I do get such a beast, I promise you may have her as a nameday gift," Shireen offers without hesitation. They titter and hug once more like two little children. "Should I beg them for a white one? Those are very fine to look at. And I do think you would look magnificent astride one such horse."

"You mean that I should ride like a man?" Elenei exclaims, mock-scandalised.

Siuddenly the two older women stop before them and Cersei whirls around with a beautiful smile on her face. Selyse's face remains neutral. "Shireen, how good you are! And to think you haven't said one thing about you. Well, I think you may tell her now."

"Tell me what?" Elenei asks, suddenly excited. "What have you been hiding from me?" she enquires playfully of her cousin.

Shireen purses her lips. "I intended to keep it a secret longer, but it seems I have been caught." She grins at Elenei. "I am going to King's Landing to serve as one of Princess Alysanna's companions." She falls silent for a moment adding to the tension that has already formed around Elenei. "And you are coming with me!"

"Seven be good!" Elenei gasps, throwing both her arms around the shorter girl. "I knew you were my favourite cousin."


	21. xxi

Arianne Martell is received at court with pomp and splendour. The Dornish princess comes with her own companions, ladies-in-waiting of the noble houses of Dorne. All of them, without exception, sport bright colours and daring garments. The hotness and humidity of their home land seems to have travelled with them to King's Landing.

Viserys stands straight at his brother's side. He tries not to grimace at the guests – though the urge is almost too strong to ignore. His mood drops considerably when his eyes fall to the woman he will make his bride. She is short and curvaceous – in the image of her mother, Mellario of Norvos, some have said – and perhaps something many men would like in a wife. A tendril of dark hair falls loose artfully to frame her face. Wide dark eyes regard with speculatively. There is a smile on her face, but it is the sort the hunter gives its prey. She thinks that she might seduce him, Viserys supposes.

It's not that he is a stranger to such attempt. Being a prince with a handsome face, coin more than he'll ever need and a bright future ahead, women have been flocking to him ever since they considered him old enough to be seduced. But Viserys is different from Rhaegar in his handling of them. His brother has always been courteous and conveniently blind to displays, Viserys on the other hand enjoyed a good game when the chance appeared. Of course, he never allowed it to go too far. There is a certain cruelty to him that Rhaegar does not possess.

He can see this reflected in his prospective bride – the same glint of cruel intentions – and he does not like it one bit. He finds no fault with it, to be sure, but he would not want something like that in a spouse. Yet he must wed this woman. Viserys does not bother swearing under his breath. Arianne Martell is set on become a Princess and he won't be the one to refuse her – not that he can refuse anyway. Dorne needs to be kept tied to the ruling house.

"She is good looking," Lyanna whispers softly to him. She has chosen to stay behind the King and the Prince, no doubt feeling more at ease flanked by Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Barristan Selmy. Viserys wonder how she can see with him and his brother before her. Lyanna is positively minute. "Yet there is something about her aura," she trails off. Viserys sighs. Even the Queen agrees with him, though unknowingly. "I'm sure this will be a brilliant match."

While he cannot agree with words, Viserys gives a short, discreet nod. He does not hope for a love match. The Prince is not that much of a fool. But he did hope to at least like the woman he was going to marry. His brother is lucky to have fallen in love with his spouse. Somehow, Viserys is sure that luck won't be extending to him. Yet he is determined to make her a decent, if not a good, partner. Arianne Martell is as innocent as he in this.

The Dornish Princess executes a proper curtsey and speaks her part perfectly. At least she knows her duty. Viserys is grateful. The ornaments glitter in her hair, around her neck, on her fingers. One might say she is extremely fond of those.

Completely oblivious to what is going on around him, Viserys almost jumps out of his skin when Lyanna slides past him, a cloud of gossamer and silk and lace. His good-sister welcomes the Princess with kisses to her cheek and words that are too soft for him to catch. With a start, he notices that Arianne is a bit taller than his aunt. The picture they present one next to the other is oddly amusing.

"And this is Prince Viserys, Lord of Dragonstone," Rhaegar makes the formal introduction. It is customary for the heir to the throne to hold that position, but Jon is better served by staying close to the King and learning first-hand how to move about court.

Arianne turns the full power of smile on him. Viserys' pulse quickens. Gods, but she is beautiful, sensual even. "Princess," he greets with a bow. Well, at least bedding her won't be a problem. After all, he doesn't have to like her as a person to climb into her bed. He remembers something that has been said in his presence by a guard that had been imbibing on duty during his father's reign. The man had been of the opinion that there were no ugly women, just not enough spirits in a man's stomach. And indeed, from neck down, Arianne is a woman, even should she have a viper for her head – which Viserys suspects she does.

Lyanna offers him an encouraging smile as he takes the Princess' hand in the crook of his arm. He is content to stay silent, and she seems of the same mind. Nay, he won't have what his brother has with his wife, but sometimes even marriages based on love fail. It is little consolation, but Viserys grasps at what he can. Her hand is warm under his. He almost smiles and wonders if she feels even a little bit nervous.

"They were wrong about you, my Prince," she says suddenly, making his attention snap to her face. "They told me you favoured your father, but I have seen the former Queen, and it seem to me you favour her more."

How unusual of her to say so. Most people do think he resembles his father. But that is because of his eyes mostly. Rhaegar has eyes of a darker violet, like mother's. Viserys' are lighter, like Aerys' had been. The truth, however, is that he is similar to both of them in equal measure. "Does that please you?"

She shrugs. "I myself resemble my mother, my Prince. I suppose it is the kinship that pleases me." She's looking to establish a bond. Viserys nods slowly. "I heard the heir to the throne resembles his mother too."

"That he does. Prince Jon is all wolf in appearance," Viserys laughs. "Although, he has the pride of a dragon." He remembers now that he hasn't seen her at Lady Dayne's funeral. How strange. Perhaps it would have been better to meet her there. Nothing can captivate him more than a maiden's melancholy. But he has seen Rhaenys Dayne somewhere behind them. Should he ask? He does anyway. "Are you close to young Lady Dayne? You are relatives of a sort, are you not?"

"Cousins," Arianne supplies. "And we are not particularly close, but I was assured that it would seem crass to bring with me companions with the name of Sand." He can sense the irony in her word. Lady Dayne herself was born out of wedlock. "Officially, anyway."


	22. xxii

"The gods help us all when your cousin comes," Jaime growls, hitting the prince over the head. The wood makes a muffled sound as it connects with his skull. "At the very least, have the decency to look ashamed!"

"I could have you arrested for that," Jon scowls, though his tone tells a different story. "Lannister, I am your future king. You ought to show me more respect."

"You won't be for long, if you don't gather your wits about you," the blond man warns with a laugh. Jaime gives him a serious look. "This is about a woman, isn't it?" He sighs deeply when Jon hesitates to answer. "It's written all over your face."

"Then you don't have to ask," the boy retorts. He feels like sighing himself. "I cannot discuss this with any member of my family. And I would prefer not to discuss it with anyone either." Well, maybe with Robb, because Robb always know what to do in such situations. But Robb is not yet here. "Shall we return to our training?"

"Not likely, boy." Jaime throws his sword down. Jon follows suit. "Well, I'm not your family and it looks like you're going to have to talk about. These women, they are more trouble than they're worth." Jon is tempted to agree.

Aside from his mother and sister who he can understand reasonably well, the other women are a mystery to him. Arya is excluded too. Jon suspects she'll never be much of a lady. Perhaps when he becomes king – a good many years away, he hopes – he may allow her to join the Kingsguard. Won't that make jaws drop all around? Then there are women like Rhaenys Dayne and Arianne Martell. One look at them captivates anyone. Not that Jon does allow himself to linger. He knows that he is more or less tied tt the great houses of Westeros in his search for a spouse. Nobody has said it to his face, but it is clear that when he does wed a noblewoman it will have to be one from the important houses – a Lannister or a Tyrell or a Stark or a Baratheon and so on. There is talk of ladies coming to be companions of his sister. Alysanna hardly needs them, Jon knows.

"Women make us weak," Jaime continues wisely. "It is a gift they have. They plead and cry and cajole and curse until we have little alternative than to do as they bid. But they can also make us strong. It depends on the woman. That's the danger with them."

"Is that why you are not yet wed, my lord?" Jon japes at his witticism. "You fear that a woman will make you weak?"

Lannister laughs. "Nay, I'm actually waiting for the woman that will knock me off my feet. That's the only sort of woman a man will ever need."

"Then I suggest Fat Walda."Jon doesn't think a moment before his outrageous suggestion. Fat Walda is an infamous niece of Walder Frey's – the old one that is. The Prince is rewarded with booming laughter from the Lion.

"I ought to have been more specific. I should only like to wed a woman who beats me in combat. That leaves me quiet at disadvantage, you see?" With that clarification everything is easier to understand. Lord Lannister has no wish to wed, Jon realises. He doesn't ask why. It is none of his business, nor does he wish to know. But he does, indeed, see. "I'm sure my brother will be happy enough to have the Rock after I am gone. And he will be happy enough to participate in the begetting of an heir if not in the actual education of said heir."

It must be a good feeling, Jon reckons. Jaime Lannister is free to do almost anything he wishes. His titles don't restrict his every movement like Jon's do. He can wed a woman he wants or not at all. He can have children, or not, depending what he wishes. He has been told many times how lucky he is to be born in the royal family, but Jon would rather have some freedom of choice. He would be happy enough to trade places with Aeron and Rhaegon. Alas, his destiny is not so.

"I have heard much of your brother," Jon says at last. The grin of Jaime's face fades. Jon knows what he must think. "I meant no insult, Lord Lannister. I merely want to meet him."

"Are you curious?" Jaime questions mockingly. "Many are, I know."

"Hardly. I suspect he had one head, two arm and two legs like the rest of us. So why would I be? What interests me is his mind." The eldest of Rhaegar's sons sits down on a boulder. "Your brother is brilliant. Beside that, there is not much I need to know. The realm needs brilliant men." And he will need brilliant men – ten years from now, twenty years from now or whenever it is that he must take the throne. "You are a soldier," he observes astutely, "and in the field of battle you are one of the best men. But we truly prosper when there is peace."

Jaime levels a stare at him. "Father wanted to kill him at first."

"My brother is blind." Everyone knows that. "While my parents have never treated him as anything less than a fully functioning individual, the first reaction of many people is to deal with him as they would with a dimwit. He bears it with good grace. Out of all of us, it is him that should have been born first."

"Prince Rhaegon is the King's very image," the golden Lion offers, "and perhaps that is why you think he would be better suited to be the next King. But I do not think he wishes for the throne to be his."

"Nay, he is content to have someone read him from the books in the library." Come to think of it, none of his siblings are particularly excited by the prospect of becoming kings or queens. Perhaps that's what comes of being so intimately entangled in the court at such a young age. Despite what many people think, the King and the Queen are not at all lenient on their children. In fact, they expect very much of them. And that's fine. "If I cannot convince you to bring your brother here, I shall go to Casterly Rock myself and negotiate with him," Jon warns.

"I fear you will find yourself in rather appalling company. My brother is not what one might call gracious. But if you determined then I ought not to try stopping you," Jaime agrees.

"I am glad we understand one another. And I don't worry very much over that other part. The court is hardly lacking in offending speech and felonious behaviour." Jon stands.


	23. xxiii

Lyanna levels a hard stare at Maester. "You may leave," she tells the man coldly. The woman on the bed whimpers pathetically and a surge of sympathy rushes through the Queen. "There is no need to be afraid, my lady. Both your babe and you yourself are worn out from the journey. Pray, try to rest awhile."

This is all scandalous. Lyanna tries to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Poor Lady Frey is already miserable enough. She noticed the looks exchanged in Dorne between Tyta and Arthur, yet she cannot quite believe what has come out of it. At the foot of the bed, Claw growls softly. The she-wolf is something of a shadow as far as Lyanna is concerned. She feels much safer with Claw by her side. Still, she shushes the beast and continues watching over Tyta.

It will take Walder Frey some time to find her if what Willas Tyrell says is true. It seems that two of Tyta's younger siblings have put together a plot to be envied by even the brightest of minds. Roslin Frey has eloped with Edmure Tully, and they are wed by now if someone had not caught them and brought a swift end to their plan. Meanwhile it fell to Willas to spirit Tyta away with the blessing and help of Olyvar Frey. He brought her here in the wee hours of morning more than a week ago, pale and exhausted, half-dead from her journey. At first Lyanna feared for the babe when they told her of Tyta's condition.

"You are very kind," Tyta offers, eyes not leaving the direwolf at the end of her bed.

"Is the child really Lord Dayne's?" Arthur loved his wife. It seems so strange that he would take another lover before Elia had grown cold in her coffin. Then again, a grieving person may try assuaging the pain by means not necessarily understandable. Lyanna does not cast the blame. She simply takes note of what is. Everything sounds so easy. Subject, action, object. Yet she knows better. It's never, ever anything but messy and complicated.

Tyta nods. She doesn't seem like she wishes to discuss with anyone. Lyanna knows better than to push. The best thing is to allow the wounds time to heal, whether they be of a spiritual or corporeal nature. Claw sniffs at the coverlet, one paw coming up to rest on the thick material. The metallic tang of blood must be that much stronger for the she-wolf. Lyanna gives her an off look. "It seems that Claw wishes to climb into the bed."

"Let her, Your Highness. I daresay she will warm me up at least," Tyta jokes weakly. Claw understands the consent well enough to execute her ascent in one flowing motion. The she-wolf remains at the far end on the bed, her head cushion cross Tyta's legs. "Having her around, I do not feel so lonely."

She must be terrified, Lyanna concludes. Arthur had best be swift. When Lord Frey discovers the location of his daughter neither Lyanna, nor Rhaegar himself may stop him from taking her. She is his daughter, and unless he washes his hands of her, it his to do as he will. Should Walder Frey put his hands on her, there is a great chance neither mother, nor child will be much longer of this world. After all, to him one less daughter means nothing.

There is, of course, Willas to consider too. Since he is the one who brought Tyta here, most people would think that he is the father of Tyta's child. It makes sense. They are old friends and reportedly very close. If Lyanna did not know any better she would have demanded that the heir to Highgarden wed the woman the moment he brought her on her steps. Yet the young man has already offered as much should Lord Dayne refuse the match. "Tyta is very dear to me. We have long been friends and if the need arises then I will protect her with my name if I have to," he had said to her mere hours ago. How admirable; however Lyanna cannot permit such a thing to take place. The Queen has not forgotten little Sansa Stark in all this.

"I shall leave you a moment to your rest," the older woman excuses herself. She send sin one of her ladies, with strict instructions.

Lyanna finds the person that she needs with such ease that she wonders if he knew she wanted his presence. "Is there any answer from Arthur?" she questions gently, sitting on the closest available chair next to her husband. "It is worrisome."

"Arthur is coming," Rhaegar answers. "He will take responsibility, my love." The King is more worried about Lord Frey. There is strength in numbers and it cannot be denied that House Frey numbers a great many individuals, not to mention their connections with other houses. Insulting any lord is a dangerous game, even more so insulting a lord with the manpower that Lord Frey boasts. "How in the Seven hells did they manage to get themselves entangled in such a situation?"

"I suspect they went about it in the same manner as most people do," Lyanna quips, hoping to lighten the mood. Arthur is a good man; he will do what is right. Rhaegar rewards her with a tight smile. It is not a matter to be joked about, but what else can they do at this point. "I just wish I could help them somehow," the Queen murmur, her head falling onto her husband's shoulder.

"You wish you could help everyone," he laughs lightly. Lyanna shrugs."You shall have to content yourself with what you have done up until this point, my Queen. Sometimes it is best to allow people to solve the problems on their own."

"I know that. And it is not everyone I would like to help. Just some people. Those that I care about," she clarifies. There are times when her husband places her on a pedestal, and despite liking it very much, the halo of perfection does not suit her. "You ought not to make me a saint." After all, Lyanna is only human.

"We shall have to reward House Tyrell for their services," the King points out after a moment of silence. "We are once more in their debt it would seem."

"Lord Dayne is in their debt," Lyanna contradicts him.

"And through him us. This might have escalated and turned into a bloodbath." Lyanna shudders at those words. She does not want another war. She does not want her husband to leave her side again and put himself at risk, which she knows very well he'll do if an armed conflict breaks out.

"Very well. I think it is time to call Lady Margaery to court," she agrees after a moment of consideration. "That should be enough for now."

* * *

 

 


	24. xxiv

Roslin titters at the look on Edmure's face. "Come, my lord, 'tis only water," she says. Her dress has been pulled up to her knees and she dips her feet in the low, cold water. There are rocks on the bottom, but they are not sharp, so Roslin fears nothing of them. She does love water. And she is wed in the house of the trout; it is all very fitting.

"Ros," Edmure laughs and comes in after her. "Do not go so far. I might lose you." He wraps his arms around her and picked her up. "You might vanish in these waters," he jokes, spinning her around. Roslin prays they won't fall in the water. It may be shallow, but it'd be just as wet as the Trident if they fell in. Edmure puts her down.

The young woman does not dare think about her father or her brothers, surely searching for her. By now they must have missed Tyta too. She shudders lightly at the thought of her father in his solar waiting for one of his daughter to find her way back into his house. It is good that Edmure is as trustworthy as he is. He is at risk too.

Lord Hoster Tully is the main problem for Edmure. It is no secret that Lord Frey has offered one of his daughters for Lord Hoster's son. Roslin does not doubt her father would have been happy even if Hoster himself took of his daughters to wife. However Hoster never really gave much thought to the offer. His plans are much grander. Edmure has confided in her that his father has been trying to match him with Arianne Martell, Daenerys Targaryen or even Shireen Baratheon. He wants to make an alliance with one of the royal houses of Westeros. Alas, Doran Martell gave his daughter to Prince Viserys and the King allowed his sister the choice of husband and she has refused the offer of House Tully. As for Shireen Baratheon, there is no man in the Seven Kingdoms that actually wants to take the girl to wife. Roslin actually feels bad for her, yet she will never give Edmure up.

Edmure was happy enough to help her and even happier to wed her, Roslin thinks, if their wedding night is anything to go by. He is good to her and gallant. Edmure is like one of those knights from the songs. There is a reason for which she fell in love with him.

"Do you think your father will be very cross?" she asks as he helps her out of the river and slips her silk shoes on. His hands go about her waist and she hoists her up on the filly. She can only ride on a side-saddle.

"Oh, he shall be cross, I have no doubt," Edmure answers, but there is no sadness in his voice. "We are man and wife in the eyes of the gods. I gave my vows for yours, and we had a wedding night. He can do nothing but accept us." He smiles then, full and wide. "And I doubt your father will raise any objections."

Edmure climbs his own horse and takes the reins of hers. He leads them through the tress and she knows they are close to Riverrun now. Roslin has not visited the seat of House Tully before. Father did not bring her, nor any of her sisters, whenever he came. But his visits have dwindled in the past few years. Roslin does not know why that is. It may have to do with the spurned offer. Likely it does. Her father is a prideful man. His pride has always counted for more than his wisdom, and he will be appeased by the marriage she is sure. That and Lord Frey is not so young anymore, though he is still well enough to get children of his wife it would seem.

"My father won't," she agrees softly. "I do not wish for you to regret this choice you've made, my lord?" This is what she fears after all. Edmure is a good, kind man. But he is still a man. And if his father can convince Edmure that she won't make a good wife, he may still decide to set her aside. Roslin hopes not. She wants to be a good wife for him and give him strong sons. She can do that. Her mother had sons. And her father has more than enough children to prove a fertile stock.

"I shall never regret you," Edmure promises easily. It is this easiness that makes her uncertain. He says it as if he hasn't reason to give it much thought. "I love you, my lady wife; there is no reason to fear that I might ever leave you."

"I know," she replies. Roslin wants to take his hand in hers and feel the sturdiness of it under her fingertips. She wants some sort of assurance that all shall be well. "Edmure, perhaps we ought to remain here a while longer." It is peaceful where they are. There is no reason to make haste.

"Do not fear," Edmure comforts her. "All shall be well." There is a glow to his eyes as he says it. "If my mother lived still, she would have been delighted in you. She might have softened father too. As it is we have to make do with our own charm, but father will not hold anger at you. You are my lady wife."

And he is her lord husband, Roslin thinks. There is something calming in this knowledge. Their love is strong, and it will survive this. They've run away and wedded without the consent of their parents, true enough, but they have love and that is more than most have. "I am your wife. Your father may do nothing about it." Her fears die down. She is to be the Lady of Riverrun. A grand lady, to be sure, and a loved lady as well. There is nothing more she could ask for without being ungrateful.

The walls and gates of Riverrun loom over her and Edmure. They are very close now. She wonders if Lord Hoster waits for his son by one of the great windows so he may see any riders approaching. And see approaching riders he shall. Her back straightens. She will be a lady. She must act accordingly. Aye, she is a woman wedded and bedded, no longer a scared little girl.

"You shall like Riverrun," Edmure tells her, happily leading her towards the gates. "There is much to be seen and even more to be done." The responsibility settles on her shoulders nicely. It is comfortable.

"I am sure I shall enjoy it very well," she responds sweetly.

The filly makes a sot sound and Edmure's horse nickers as if to answer.

 


	25. xxv

Arthur's mare gallops at breakneck speed into the yard. It takes a hard yank and more than a few good seconds to get her to settle back. His hand tried to soothe her instinctively, but his mind is nowhere near. In fact all his thoughts are of bloody sheets and pain filled screams. His heart lurches, then beats agonizingly in his chest as if to tear itself out.

Climbing down on weak legs he tries not to stagger. His companions are only now entering the yard, the wheelhouse dragging along in their wake. Arthur looks around. The gods seem to have taken pity on him for the Queen comes across the yard to him, little Alysanna Targaryen following her shyly.

Lyanna gives him a soft look. "My Lord Dayne, you are finally come." He is tired and dusty and in no way fit to stand before her, but she takes his hand in hers anyway. "I am glad."

"Your Majesty," he replies, his eyes drifting from mother to daughter, "Princess," he greets the child too. Alysanna half steps behind her mother, but there is a small smile on her lips.

The Queen turns her eyes to the Princess too. "You are going to be late for your lessons," she chides in a kind manner. "You'd best be off now, my little dear." Only then does Arthur see the she-wolf standing a few feet away. Lyanna laughs gently. "Do not concern yourself with Claw. She means no harm. I think you must be tired, my lord. Come."

He is weary. The Queen greets those other noteworthy companions of his, but she does not launch into a conversation with any. Instead he approaches him once more. "Take some time to refresh yourself, my lord. You shall have what you've come for after."

Later, after he has bathed and eaten something, Arthur makes his way to the hallway. Claw waits a little way away from the doors of his chamber. This is how the Lord of Starfall knows the Queen is close by. She comes in a cloud of shimmery satins and pristine silks. Somehow she seems out of place in the greyness of his world. But Lyanna knows well enough not to speak. She must have learned to read people from her husband. Claw growls softly and runs ahead of them.

Further down the hall there is a room with doors wide open. Lyanna stops in front of them. "She is well enough, but tired and worried. It will go a long way to know she is not alone." She stops and thinks. "Rhaegar worries about the lady's family."

"He needn't be," Arthur replies. "We shall have need of a Septon and witnesses." The Queen nods at his words. But her answer is that all those matters may be cared for on the morrow. "You have my gratitude, Your Majesty."

"My lord, 'tis the Highgarden heir that deserves your gratitude." With that she takes her leave, Claw running out from the room after the mistress of the Red Keep.

Wasting no more time, Arthur hurries across the floor. The doors close slowly behind him. He pays that no mind. Tyta is abed, but she does not sleep. Her back is propped against wide pillows. The woman's head turns his way and her lips part in a silent greeting. He has to stop. Eyeing her with interest, Arthur cannot seem to get enough of her.

"My lady," he greets quietly. His feet take him closer to the bed. She looks almost the same, although she has grown somewhat pale and there is a strange glow to her skin – or what he can see of it anyway. Her eyes shine. "Are you well, my lady."

"Are we not past titles, my lord?" A gust of wind comes sweeping in. "I am well," she offers at his surprised face. He has the feeling that she is amused. Arthur can only wonder at that.

"And the babe?" His hand itches to find her middle under the coverlet and furs. Elia had not grown very large with Aegon much to the worry of the maesters. Yet Aegon had been born well enough, though he'd be the last child Elia could ever carry. "Does the child cause you discomfort?"

She shivers. "Not more than most mothers are caused, I suppose. Her Majesty the Queen tells me it is normal to be a bit weakened, especially after a long travel. She says I should feel better in a few days. I am already much improved." She shivers once more. "Food is the only cause of fuss." But she smiles while she says it.

Arthur takes her hand. She is cold, he realises with a start. Even under furs, she is cold. "Give me leave to share warmth with you," he coaxes, fingers climbing higher up her arm in an intimate caress. There is little sensuality about his touch.

"Share warmth with me as you will, my lord," she says. There is worry in her eyes as she pulls the corner of her coverlet and pushed herself back.

He slides in beside her, wrapping one arm around her shoulder and manoeuvring her to lie with her head against his chest. His other hand glides to her middle and feels for the telltale signs of pregnancy. There is a small bump. His fingers spread over it lovingly. She is still slim enough and almost weightless. Arthur kisses the top of her head with affection. Her shivering stops. Warm breath blows against his chest, and he can feel it through the tunic. One small hand hangs to his shoulder, the other rests on his heart. It belongs there.

"Are you warm now, my lady?" The formal name comes as a form of good natured teasing. She gives a nod and he gives her another kiss, only this time she turns her head upwards. Her lips are inviting and Arthur does not have to think too long before taking them with his.

Why does it not feel a sin to do so? Arthur has no answer for that. But it does not, so Arthur plans even now the return home. Tyta shall be the Lady of Starfall, and if the gods are good she will live long and be happy. A flash of something courses through him. It is not lust. It is not love either. A mix, he decides within a heartbeat. Elia had brought something similar with her smiles and gentle words. But Elia is dead and buried and she can no longer smile.

Surely it is not an affront to the gods that he continues to live after her death. He mourned her, he did. He'd been mourning her for years now, ever since she fell ill. It is time to move on and live. Aye, to live. Tyta smiles. She settles against him once more and sleeps.

 


	26. xxvi

Margaery Tyrell is beautiful, a rose in full bloom; just as they said she would be. Or that is all Jon can think when he first sees her. She is not particularly tall, but she is slender and shapely; not at all like the little girl he remembers from all those years ago. Can she really be that sweet little girl that had nodded along to his imitations of howls? Her mop of brown curls has grown longer, spilling down her back and past her waist. Roses, small and red and fragrant, are caught in it. Her eyes are unchanged. They are still wide and innocent, looking at him with trust and adoration. Jon's jaw clenches at that but he forces himself to smile in greeting.

Opposite her Rhaenys Dayne stands tall and straight. She is a fraction taller than him, barely visible should they stand together, which he finds strange but not in a bad way. She too has dark hair and eyes even darker than Margaery's. There is something sensual about those eyes, Jon thinks numbly, as she gives him a long look. Her curves are tamer then the other's but she has them better displayed in her Dornish dress, the deep orange silks and golden lace trimmings settling nicely against her smooth tanned skin. Of course it is not on those that Jon's eyes linger. He is still shy when it comes to the ladies of the court and even more so to the Dornish women that have come with Princess Arianne.

He wonders if his uncle feels any more at ease with his future bride. They shall be wedded this evening. Everyone is preparing for the feast. He doubts that very much; all these seem to have an understanding between them to catch all the unwed noblemen in their traps. Jon cannot deny that they've trapped him. "My ladies," he greets them with a small bow. He has little choice but to allow them to flank him and offer each an arm. "I trust you are pleased with your stay in King's Landing."

"Oh, I have never been happier," Margaery claim with her sing-song voice, clutching his ram with her long fingered hands securely. There is a certain familiarity in her tough that Jon is not so sure he appreciates. "I cannot wait to dance the night away at the wedding." And pull on his uncle's garments when it comes time to have a bedding, Jon adds silently. "How about you, my Lady of Dayne?"

"It is a very fine experience, my lady, my Prince," she replies, her voice tranquil. "As for the wedding, I've a hand in its making, and I confess to being anxious. I can hardly wait."

"Before it slips my mind," Jon starts, his head turning towards Rhaenys, "I believe I must congratulate you on your father's marriage. My lady, we are all well pleased that he has found some joy." Rhaenys nods sharp but her features remain cool. Jon doubts she is very pleased with his father's new wife. He turns to Margaery, "Have Loras and Garlan come with you, my lady? I've not seen them."

"They are here," she confirms. "I suspect you shall see more of them at the feast."

Jon sees Lady Alerie and Margarey parts from him reluctantly at her mother's glare. He greets the older woman warmly as he is fond enough of all those memories he has of Highgarden. They exchanged a few pleasantries, but Jon and Rhaenys do not linger too long. Rhaenys asks that he show her the rose garden.

He leads her to a vacant part of the garden and wonder yet again why he is doing this. The rose garden is a small corner of the palace gardens and here lie a dozen or so bushes of various coloured roses that have been shipped from the Reach. "Here we are, my lady."

But Rhaenys shows no interest in roses. She reaches out and cups his face in her hands. Before Jon can react her lips are against his and she is kissing him. For half a heartbeat he is stunned into motionlessness. When he recovers it seems natural to kiss her back. It is her wish and Jon sees no reason to deny her this. What is an innocent kiss, after all? Locking his arms around her waist he pulls her closer. Rhaenys is pliant and warm, willing him even closer. Her hands tug at his hair.

They come apart regretfully. Apparently, air is not optional. Jon's lungs burn and he sucks the air in greedily. Briefly he thinks about Robb's advice. Rhaenys licks her lips and invites him back with a pleading look. He gives in all too easily.

"This is unseemly," he ventures after his lips are free once more. Where did she learn how to kiss like that? Her breath is hot against his skin. She makes no move to disentangle herself from his arms. "My lady, we ought to return." But he doesn't want to. Desire burns low in his stomach. The lines blur even further when she rests her head on his shoulder, refusing to let go of him.

"You don't need that woman they've brought here for you," she rasps, her voice muffled by his jerkin. "Give me the chance to show you that no one can please you like I can."

Her words are dangerous. His reaction to them even more so. Jon struggles to detach himself from her and push her away gently. A kiss is a simple matter. What she asks for is not. "Margaery Tyrell is a guest, my lady, same as you. She is not here for me."

"If you think so, my Prince, then you must be blind," Rhaenys accuses softly. "All the young ladies are here for you. The only thing you need to do is choose. Me, or Margaery Tyrell, or Sansa Stark, if it please you. We are all here for you, Your Grace."

Jon has to laugh at that. "You are wrong," he insists. "And if you are not, then they shall be disappointed I fear. I have no intention of making any choice." Gods! Is this what all these ladies think? He gives her a sharp smile.

Her lips purse. "You cannot blame us, Your Grace." Her hand flutters to his shoulder. "Say at least that I have not angered you. I should be very ashamed to have cause any distress." Her tone and eyes seem sincere enough that Jon cannot deny her the request. He heaves a sign as she clenches her fingers around his shoulder.

"You have not caused me the slightest distress." His declaration is met with a thankful smile from her.

"I am glad then," she answers, kissing his cheek. "We shall see one another at the feast, will we not?"

"To be sure," Jon agrees uncertainly.


	27. xxvii

"Slow down," Rhaegon laughs as Alysanna pulls him around the room. He half fears he'll fall and break his nose. Not that Rhaegon knows what damage that will do to his face. There are dreams sometimes, but he never sees himself. At least not in human form. "Alysanna, stop! I'll call Claw on you," he threatens light-heartedly.

By now even Alysanna knows that Claw is harmless, to them that is. It is curious how the she-wolf cares for them all. Their mother's pet comes to them from time to time, scaring the cats and dogs around the castle. Rhaegon can sometimes hear them. Claw usually gives his hand a lick by way of greeting, then climbs atop his bed – the wooden frame creaks under her large frame – and sleeps there awhile.

"You don't frighten me, Rhaegon Targaryen." She pulls harder on his hand. "Come now, brother. If you shan't dance with me, then who will?" She leads him in a circle and he follows dutifully.

"There will be enough knights that you won't feel your feet by the end of the night," Rhaegon replies, catching her by the waist. It is more luck than skill, but it gets her to pause all the same. She slaps his hands away and tuts lightly. "You'd best save your strength, sister, for they'll give you no respite."

"They'll be too busy fawning over mother," Alysanna chides him.

There is truth in her words however. Their mother may not be the young girl she once was, but that doesn't seem to stop her admirers. It's a source of great and continual amusement to their father when they squabble over the Queen's favours, Rhaegon has heard him say more than once. His wife laughs sweetly and assures him the only man whose admiration she wants is the King's.

"Don't let that spoil your fun, sister. You have me, Jon and Aeron. Willas Tyrell is bound to ask for a turn to spin you on the dance floor. Robb Stark, as well, and Olyvar Frey besides. Father will dance with you too, I'm certain. The Dornish princes are here."

Rhaegon can practically hear Alysanna scowl. She is so loud with her emotions. He stifles the urge to laugh. Of course there are other problems in the realm. Alysanna's dance partners are the least important right now. He's been having dreams again. Scary ones that leave him shaking and sweating, with tears in his eyes and the remnants of a scream on his lips. It is troubling and since list last nightmare came to pass, his mother has promised that she would look to find someone to help. A boy from the Neck is to come to King's Landing soon.

He stops and paces to the one of the chairs. Rhaegon knows his rooms like the back of his hand. Usually he would need a cane to move about, but his rooms are different; he's been learning his way inside of them since he was old enough to scamper about. Aeron's rooms are next to his and there are times when he sneaks to his brother's rooms to share lemon cakes.

"Do you want me to call someone?" Alysanna asks. He feels her hand climbing up his arm. "If you wish, I could find mother for you." His moods are knows to Alysanna. She smoothes some invisible creases on his clothing.

"Nay." His voice is soft and tremulous. His hand feels around Alysanna for her shoulder, round but thin. He signs heavily. "I saw snow and a thousand crows and blood on the ground. There was a strange smell as well, cold. I never knew that one can smell the cold."

Alysanna grows stiff. "Cold?" Cold means death. "Winter is coming." The words of their mother's house ring through his ears, burning in his head. "It could be just a dream, brother. It might mean nothing."

"Or everything," Rhaegon argues. "I saw dragons too. Only they were made of stone."

"Dragonstone has such creatures. You must have been remembering that in your dream." There is fear in her voice. It seeps through him, going straight to his bones, painfully cold. "Rhaegon, I grow fearful when you speak thus."

"There are eggs still. There must be some here too, only hidden. Don't you ever wonder what lies underneath the keep?" Dark and damp, the tunnels must hold something precious. They must. Dragons even. There are skulls, of course, but there must be eggs too. Unhatched eggs.

"Well if you can find them they are yours, brother. You are certainly welcome to them. We wouldn't even know where to begin with them." He could kiss her for that. Alysanna is more their mother in mind, as he is more their father.

She is made of reason, and he is made of dreams. And his dreams have told him all he needs to know. "Fire and blood, my sweet sister. Fire and blood, the other half on us. That is all we need." In his visions there is always blood, even if it is just a few drops, blood is always there. And there is fire though he doesn't see it. The burn is there, whether it blooms in his chest from lack of air, or it comes through his clothing.

"They are words, Rhaegon, and words are wind," she reminds him. Her fingers dig in his arm. "We can go in search of those eggs, but you're bound to end up disappointed." Her hold grown painful by this point.

"Words are memory. Words have power." She lets go as he sits up. "You needn't offer your help if you do not wish to. Aeron has already agreed that we won't be missed if we pretend weariness. We could make for our rooms and change course. None would be the wiser."

"I cannot let you fools get yourselves lost," his sister protests. "If you insist on doing this, I shall be one step behind you to laugh every time Aeron slams into a wall or stumbles over his own feet. Someone has to take care of you two."

"Jon won't be coming," Rhaegon tells her. "He doesn't know about this, and it might be that we shall surprise him with his own little dragon."

"One as pale as his Ghost," Alysanna murmurs. "He really is as white as snow and quieter than a spirit. Perhaps we could convince Claw to come down with us."

Rhaegon starts. "That's not a bad notion, sister mine. The she-wolf will protect us well enough. But how do we convince her?"

"I suppose we could ask," she offers. Claw is smart and there is a small chance that she will understand what they ask of her.

"We lose nothing by trying," Rhaegon agrees. "You find Claw and tell her to come with us when we leave the feast."


	28. xxviii

Aeron grimaces lightly. "I don't like this," he says as they descend the stairs. The musty smell makes it hard to breathe and he won't even think about all the spiders and rats that must be dwelling down here. "There is no reason for us to be here. We could always ask father to send some men in to search this place." Though, by now these catacombs must have been looked over half a thousand times. "What if we get lost?" he asks fearfully.

Rhaegon snorts, his hand feeling along the wall as his cane taps the steps. "We won't get lost. Claw can sniff the way back to the surface." Aeron absolutely hates it when his brother makes sense in an insane sort of way. Claw gives a low growl as if to agree.

"That could take days!" he protests, kicking a rock away before Rhaegon can step on it. "We would die of hunger down here. Unless, of course, one of us is willing to hunt down and cook rats." Something black scurries past his boot and he almost shrieks, before remembering that he is the blood of the dragon. Rodents like these might make the bile rise in his throat, but he will not shame himself by crying out. Aeron bites his tongue.

"Stop it," Alysanna hisses from behind him."If we get hungry we'll just eat you. No need to chase rats." She makes a smacking sound with her lips and leans in closer to him. "If you're scared, just turn back," she teases, but the trembling gives her away. She may act as if she is at ease, but fear has already crept in her words and it reverberates, bouncing off the cold stones and spreading through the air.

"Just sing him that song mother would sing for us whenever you were afraid of the dark," Aeron hears Rhaegon instructing their sister, just as his foot touches the last stair.

"I was not afraid," Alysanna protests loudly.

"Were too," Aeron contradicts her, earning himself a kick in the heel which sends his stumbling on the even ground covered with cobblestones.

"I was not affair of the dark," she grumbles when she and Rhaegon descend the last step. "I was afraid of you, with your crying and fussing, stupid. You told me that you saw a snark in my closet and a grumkin under my bed. I was so scared one of those creatures would gnaw my toes off if my feet were not under the blanket at all times."

"It took mother a whole week to convince the two of you that snarks and grumkins were only tales," Rhaegon remembers out loud, his voice holding a note of fondness. "Are you by any chance still afraid of the dark, brother mine?"

Refusing to reply, the younger twin crosses his arms over hic chest. He waits for his sister to continue teasing him, but something unexpected happens. "There is no shame in being scared from time to time," Alysanna voices softly, touching Aeron's shoulder gently. "After all, you cannot be brave without being afraid first, and you, my dear brother, are being brave right now."

There are moments when despite her youth, Alysanna says the exact right thing. This is one such moment. Aeron prepares himself to lighten the mood with an innocent quip when an extraordinary and terrifying thing happens.

Alysanna's foot slips on the tiles and a gaping hole opens underneath her. She barely has time to scream before Rhaegon, who was holding her arm, starts after her. Aeron drops his torch, lunging for his brother. He catches Rhaegon around the waist and hauls him back, hoping with all his heart that Alysanna holds on as they are plunged into darkness.

The gods are not on their side though. The sound of material tearing catches Aeron's attention and Alysanna screams again. Her yell is followed by a thud half a heartbeat later. A heavy silence stretches over them at his point. Aeron releases Rhaegon from his hold.

"Alysanna!" the eldest brother calls, "Alysanna, can you hear me?"

A moan of pain is their reply. A short silence follows, then their sister speaks, "Aye, I hear you."

With trembling hands Aeron feels around for the torch. He can probably start a small flame with the flint and steel had brought. "We'll get you out of here," he hears himself speaking. "Just wait a little so we can have some light. "Rhaegon, hold this at arm's length before you," he instructs, putting the rod in his brother's hands.

Striking the flint against the steel, he produces a spark, and somehow the torch catches fire on the first try. A soft light bathes them the next moment. Taking the torch, Aeron comes closer to the edge of the pit and peers down. Alysanna has climbed back to her feet, but even if she were as tall as their father, she would still not be able to get out.

"Did you torch fall with you?" Rhaegon calls to her from behind Aeron.

Alysanna holds it up and Aeron throws her the flint and steel. "Lodge the end in the wall," he tells her. Alysanna follows his instructions and the hole is illuminated. It takes them a few moments to realise there are small, narrow shelves dug into the surface. "By the gods," Aeron murmurs, leaning perilously over the edge. "What's in those?"

Violet eyes look up. Alysanna's fingers dig into the slightly humid earth. "Rocks," she tells them, but then she grasps. Her digging becomes frantic and then she is struggling to pull something from the wall.

"Pull harder," Aeron says, placing an arm before Rhaegon who is now standing closer to the edge too.

"You can do it," Rhaegon encourages her softly.

"I'm trying!" she growls, digging her heels into the yielding ground and tugging with all her strength. She gives a tortured cry and staggers, falling on her back. The object she was trying to dislodge from the wall comes along with her. She holds it up for their inspection.

Aeron cannot be sure, but underneath the dirt and dust what appears to be scales form a large round shape. "It's an egg."

"A dragon egg," his sister corrects him. "And it's mine. I found it."

"One might say you stumbled upon it," Rhaegon replies.

It takes Aeron a moment, but he bursts into a fit of laughter. "Are there others?"

Alysanna shrugs her shoulders. "I can see other lumps in the wall, but this one was hard enough to get out. I'll need help."

"I'm staying down here with our sister," Rhaegon says. "Find father and mother and bring them here. Do you remember the way we came?"

"Aye. Two flights of spiralling stairs, a long corridor after. I must go straight ahead and watch out for the hidden passages." Claw growls, pushing into his leg.


	29. xxix

His flame haired cousin fairly begs a dance of him and Viserys cannot refuse Sansa Stark. There is something utterly charming about her innocent smiles and rosy blushes. The last strains of the song can still be heard when he gives her back in her father's care. Eddard Stark nods his thanks, taking hold of Sansa's hand. There is already another lordling asking to have his turn partnering her. She is all grace and shy smiles, the complete opposite of her impish sister who has taken to skulking in the shadows after her mother berated her for some minor offence none of the guests took notice of.

Soon enough the maidens not flowered will be sent to their chambers and the bedding will commence. The Prince covers his scowl by sipping from the goblet passed into his hand. He eyes the dancing couples, taking note of the pairings and their disposition. Sansa has been swept into this dance by Lord Beric, and she seems happy enough, though her eyes keep stealing glances to the crowds. Eddard Strak has convinced his unruly she-wolf to partner him, while Robb Stark is still dancing with Daenerys. Even Lord Dayne leads his pregnant wife in elegant circles. Lady Tyta looks less wan, but somewhat large.

The King and Queen sit out this dance as they did the one before. Rhaegar's head leans in so he can better hear his lady, the pose striking as it is intimate. There is rarely any display of affection exhibited in public between his brother and his wife, however, a veil of mystery is wrapped around the pair when they are close together. The atmosphere around them is slightly charged, as if they are acutely aware of one another, making the third party aware of them both. Viserys looks away from the scene.

"Brother, you should smile," he hears Daenaeys' voice chiding him. Suddenly his sister has materialised before her, grabbing him by the arm. "You look sour. 'Tis your wedding. What cause have you for sadness on this day?" Large amethyst eyes sparkle in the light. She mimics his expression a moment later.

Annoyance course through him, but he smiles despite himself. "Very well, sister. You have caught me in my mischief. Whatever shall you do with me?"

"I have a mind to find a feather," she tells him with her most serious expression on. "Unless, of course, you offer me a dance."

"Have you not tired yet of dancing?" His question is met with a knowing smile and Viserys finds himself dragged after her. She is his sister. He owes her at least a dance. "Don't expect I shall do this again. My toes are not made of steel," he hisses when she intentionally steps on his foot.

"What do you think of your bride?" she asks innocently.

He cannot tell her. His displeasure catches in his throat. "She is nice." Such a bland term. Nice. But she is nice, he supposes. At least her face and figure hint at nice. But even now he can feel her eyes on him, burning his skin through the layers of his clothing. "I don't suppose you would know anything about her, would you?"

"She is your wife," Daenerys points out sensibly, "and you can ask her anything you wish to know. I am sure she will be more than happy to see you are interested in her."

How naïve his sister is. Viserys smiles down at her indulgently. Her head is filled with tales of knight and love and whatnot. She lives in a world where everything is possible; where whatever she wants she can obtain by reaching out for it. There will come a day when she is no longer allowed to do as she will. Viserys fears for her and what her reaction will be. Instead of speaking he twirls her around one last time before the music ends.

The children are being led out and Viserys knows what follows. The singers play the first chords of The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown. A wave of bawdy comments and good-natured teasing hits the bride and groom, Viserys plasters a smile on his face as the noble ladies take him by the arms, making all sorts of comments. His wife fares no better, but she is now cowed. Instead she jests and laughs. Viserys turns his head away.

Fingers pull at his clothing, dislodging buttons and undoing knots. Someone touches his side gently and he cannot help but laugh. It tickles. The ladies that that as approval for their work. They coo and fuss, complimenting his tall form and princely demeanor. Viserys tries his best not to mind the fact that his chest is bared to their gaze and touches.

Soon enough they have him completely out of his clothing and murmuring in fascination. They are wedded, all of them. That his form should prove such a surprise can only make him wonder. They push him into the bridal chamber where he is promptly set upon by his young wife. Bawdy suggestions come from outside, but Viserys pulls away from Arianne to bar the door.

"Leave that, husband," she calls to him, her voice throaty and seductive. She guides him away from the door and into the bed. Viserys follows without complaint. The telltale signs of arousal are already here. "Come to me."

Bedding her feels exactly like bedding any other woman. Viserys finds no difficulty in doing his duty, but there is nothing more to it. He makes sure she finds her pleasure and prays that somehow the gods will see fit to bestow a child upon her soon.

He is not at all surprised that she comes to him not a maiden. There is skill in her touch, too much of it for her not to have known other men. For a brief moment his pride stings at the knowledge but Viserys tramples it down. He does not care who she had been with.

"Do you ride much, my lady?" he asks, just to be polite. So they may be in accord if they are asked for explanations. The chances are slim, but he is not willing to risk anything.

"Aye, I am a very good rider." She seems to understand immediately what his meaning is. Viserys is thankful. She must have planned this anyway. "Perhaps we could go riding together someday soon, husband," Arianne suggests as he withdraws from her embrace.

"Perhaps," Viserys agrees noncommittally. He finds that clothing had been provided for them. Handing his bride a long – ironically enough, white – garment, he pulls his own tunic over his head. He would leave, but this is his wedding night.

In the end he settles into the bed, next to Arianne and waits for sleep to come, patently ignoring his wife when she tries to spark an amorous mood.


	30. xxx

Her shoulders shake with mirth and her whole face is aglow with her positively dazzling smile. Robb doesn't think he's ever seen anything like this before. He smiles back at her because there is nothing else he can do that doesn't end with his head of a pike.

"You are horrid," she says, her eyes still glued to the portly Lord Brax. "He did not really do anything like that, did he?" She watches the man in horror-struck fascination and Robb almost feels embarrassed.

"Didn't he?" Robb questions her, more to prolong her anticipating than anything else. Of course Lord Barx did say something to that effect; Robb is no liar. But he might not have used quite the terms he gave. Robb blames that on Brax's lack of imagination.

The Princess tries to hide her amusement. It is no use. People are staring at them, wondering what he's been saying to her. Girls have always liked Robb. Until recently they used to chase him around to steal innocent kisses and whatnot. Until recently Robb was not very interested in them. But then his view changed and suddenly girl became very interesting. Not more so than sword practicing, but a great deal more than before. But Daenerys Targaryen is different from any other girl.

It starts with the obvious facts. She is a princess for one. She has the silvery hair and violet eyes common to her house. She is beautiful and lively. But more than that, she leaves always wanting more of her company. And Ross has never been one to resist temptation very well. So here he is, trying his best to be charming and agreeable, and he hopes that she is not merely being polite. He thinks not, but one can never know. She is not most girls after all.

"Then I am very sorry for his lady wife," Daenerys cuts into his thoughts. "She must have been mortified."

"Has she been in full control of her senses, I am certain she could have summoned the needed amount of mortification. As it was, she was content to disparage her husband's masculinity with a comment that does not bear repeating." Robb grins at her and makes a vague gesture with his hand towards Lord Brax's lower extremities.

Daenerys' reply is a shocked gasp. "And how exactly did you come by all this information?"

"Suspicion does not become you, Your Grace," Robb laughs. "I was there when the incident occurred," he explains for her benefit. He wants to say more. But something stops him.

Suddenly it is time to go. Daenerys' smile drops. She seems as regretful at the interruption as he. "Will you be conducting your sisters to their chambers?"

Robb nods. He catches on to the scheme with little difficulty. "I am indeed." How gives her a graceful bow. "In fact I must find them right now to tell them that I shall be very glad to escort them." He almost forgets that he is supposed to leave when her smile returns.

Sansa is easy to find. His sister looks longingly at Willas Tyrell who is speaking to the very happy but also very pregnant Tyta, Lady Dayne. "Gods me good, but you must stop that, sister," Robb startles her, not without a hint of remorse when she lets out a small cry. "I'm sure Willas shan't make off with Lord Dayne's wife." She gives him an incredulous stare as if the possibility never entered her head. "They are not plotting an elopement," he tries again. "Lord Dayne would likely protests to such a development of his marriage."

His sister nods. She looks strangely suspicious now. "I'm tired anyway," she claims, slipping her arm around his. "Where is the little monster?"

"She is our sister," Robb feels compelled to point out, even though Arya can act rather unwise at times. "Mother would not approve."

"Mother's favourite gown wasn't stained by raspberry juice." And that is just the latest of Arya's offences. Robb does wonder if she will ever be anything but a wild little troublemaker. "Don't smile," Sana grumbles.

Now Robb cannot help smiling. Sansa scowls at him. "Let's find Arya," he suggests, narrowly avoiding running into some lord.

"Your sense of direction astonishes me," she quips. Taking charge of the situation, Sansa steers them in the general direction of a long banquet table. Robb doesn't say a thing. They stop near the roasted boar. She taps her foot. Robb gives her an unsure look. "You don't actually expect me to kneel and look under the table," she informs him tersely.

"But you expect me to do it?" He would question her sanity, but Sansa looks scary right now. "Very well."

There is something decidedly undignified about going down on his knees under a banquet table. He just hopes everyone else is too busy to notice. He hopes the Princess is already halfway to her chamber. And when he finds Arya, he will throttle her.

Thankfully his youngest sister needs only one look at his face to come scrambling out from her hiding spot. She holds a greasy bone in the folds of her dress. "I just wanted to bring Nymeria something." She shuffles her feet awkwardly.

In the end Robb gives her a smile, because this is Arya, after all, and she can no more help getting in trouble than she can help breathing. In the song the King is already removing his tunic and the Queen is perilously close to losing her shift, not to mention that the bride and groom are being pulled by their respective groups from where they are.

The guards do not even blink when they see him pass by them with Sansa and Arya in tow. He sees them to their rooms and then stands in the hall, quite unsure what to do.

A door opens slowly. Daenerys gives in a shy smile. "I managed to filch some wine." She blushed prettily. Opening the door wider she beckons him on in. "I though we could share a cup. I didn't think to bring two."

"That is fine." Apprehension and excitement mingle inside of him. "I cannot stay very long."

The Princess takes his arm and pulls him in. "You can tell them your younger sister has some trouble falling asleep."

That's as good an excuse as any. "Arya sleeps like the dead. But the guards don't know that." He smiles down at her."You are devious."

"Not at all," she contradicts him, though she seems to have taken his comment as a compliment. "Have some wine." Her invitation is followed by a goblet being pressed in his hands. Her eyes are sparkling.

Slowly raising the cup to his lips, Robb does not take his eyes off of her. The wine is sweet. He swallows a mouthful and then hands it to her. "Have some too."

"I think I shall do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Muhahahah! I bet you thought you would get dragon eggs. There is always next chapter though.


	31. xxxi

Having spent quite a lot of time with his Stark cousins, Jon was at some point Sansa's prince charming. Among his many duties, dancing took precedence. Sansa is and has always been a graceful dancer. There is not one dance she doesn't know the steps to. Jon, forced into partnering, in part by good manner and, also, by the fact that she was always nice when asking, is a proficient dancer tanks to his cousin's insistence that he dance with her. Robb always refused her until a couple of years back.

It's hard to think that anyone can match Sansa's knowledge and elegance. Jon certainly never thought anyone would. But the proof stand before his very eyes, smiling demurely, glancing from time to time in his eyes. Margaery Tyrell is more than a pretty face. And he ought to pay attention to her, or so his own mother says. Jon doesn't have to wonder why. He chafes at the silent order, but he bites his tongue against the annoyance. He is a Prince, it is only right that he do his duty.

The Tyrells are important allies and the key to the Reach. Margaery is pretty and clever and sweet natured. Jon doesn't protest to the match. He is just minutely irritated by the fact that no matter where he looks people are plotting to lead him to some choice or another. They always want something form him whether it be to make a suggestion to his father, or speak for they valiant son, or look at their lovely daughter. Like dogs with a bone, they just won't let go. And the Tyrells seem more determined than ever to put Margaery in his path.

"How long do you remain in King's Landing, my lady?" he asks, not because he is curious, but because remaining silent during a dance is not common, and may very well attract attention.

"It depends on my father's wishes," she answers, a small smile touching her lips. Jon finds himself smiling back. She really is a little rose; there is no other apt description of Margaery. "It is difficult, being away from home," she confesses, surprisingly. Most women would thrill at the fine ambiance of King's Landing.

"I imagine it is. I've heard that Highgarden is very beautiful in the summer." He twirls her around gently. "I wish my memories were clearer. How strange that I have spend quite a bit of time there, yet I remember very little of it."

"Your Grace should visit when the time is right." She slips her fingers through his encouragingly. "I would be very happy to show you my home." How innocent it all sounds. But there is a certain glint in her eyes as Jon lifts her in the air for the last spin.

Another song starts playing and Jon leads Margaery away, her hand still in his. He avoids looking at her, instead he searches the crowd, wondering if he has even the slightest chance to make an escape. "I shall think about your invitation," he replies just before depositing her at her father's side. Margaery gives him one last placid smile.

Making his way through the room, he suddenly notices Rhaenys Dayne at one of the doors. It would be best to ignore her, to turn around and find some lady he hadn't yet danced with, perhaps even sit with Arya for a little while. But his feet seem to have a mind of their own and they carry him towards her despite his conscience's best attempts to prevent it. Jon cannot help the sigh that leaves his lips.

"You Grace," Rhaenys greets him, touching his arm softly, just above his elbow. Jon inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"Do you dance, Lady Dayne?" he questions, a whim really. His feet hurt from all the dancing he has done this evening.

Rhaenys bites her lip. "Not when it can be avoided, Your Grace. I won't wish to cause any harm anyhow."

He raises an eyebrow. "Are you, perchance, admitting to a fault, my lady?" Even poor dancers jump at the chance to dance with a prince. Jon would know. She catches on to his teasing and smiles at him, a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Walking suits me better," she replies, circling one arm around his. "I was just about to go on a walk when you intercepted me."

"Outside? On your own?" He cannot really say he likes the sound of that. "Allow me to accompany you, my lady. I shouldn't like the thought of any guest being exposed to danger." Technically she is safe enough within the palace walls, but still, people have been drinking for some time now. It wouldn't do to leave her alone in such circumstances.

And a walk will do him good.

Jon leads her outside, through a narrow hall. It is usually the servants that come through here, but right now it is deserted. Rhaenys clings to his arm, exerting a gentle yet determined clutch. At this point he finds that all sort of strange thought enter his mind. It is just the two of them in a darkened hall. He could kiss her, and no one would have to know. Just a kiss. Surely it wouldn't put a strain on his duties.

She pulls on his sleeve making him stop. "Your Grace," Rhaenys calls. He turns to her, wondering if the dark discomforts her, intending t6o tell her they are almost there. But then she is kissing him again. As if she'd been in his head all along and knew exactly what he was thinking. "Come with me, Your Grace."

"Where?" Though he knows it doesn't matter at the moment. She is looking around, searching for something. "Where do you want to go?"

"Where does this lead to?" she asks, making him glance over his shoulder.

"To the upper floors." He opens the door for her to see the stairs.

Seeming to have found whatever she wanted to, Rhaenys takes his hand, and this time it is she who leads him up the stairs, stopping ever now and then to plant a short kisses on his lips. Jon lets himself be led away. He drowns out the warning cries ringing in his ears.

They end up in an empty room with the moonlight streaming through the windows and as his back hits the wall Jon is no longer concerned with various duties that plagued him such a short time ago. The whole world has been reduced to this room and this moment and these lips kissing him. He doesn't understand why Rhaenys Dayne can make the world disappear with a single kiss and he can't fathom why she is kissing him but his head won't process thought with anything resembling logic now. It just might that the room he has entered has no escape door this time.


	32. xxxii

Rickard brings a hand over his mouth to cover his coughs. He knows even without looking what he will find when he takes it away. But he glances at the distressing image anyway. Specks of blood stain the skin of his palm. There is nothing to be done. It would be disheartening news if he hadn't led a long and overall happy life. Maester Luwin tell him his end might come in a matter of days or it might drag on for years.

Wiping his hand on his breeches, Rickard turns his attention to the Black Brother seeking an audience. It is his own son, his little Benjen, a man grown. The boy is perceptive, studying him with shrewd eyes, Lyarra's eyes. It has been so longs since he'd seen these eyes.

"Lord Stark," Benjen greets him, coming before him with arms wide open. Rickard does not hesitate to return the embrace. "Father. You look pale."

"Not mincing words, are you, boy?" Rickard sighs and lets go, clapping his son's shoulder. "What brings you here?"

He had been very surprised when Benjen chose to join the Night's Watch. Other Starks have done so before him, of course, but he always though his children would all settle down in homes of their own and give him a horde of grandchildren to delights him in his old days. Yet, out of his four children, only one remains with him. Lyanna is leagues away in King's Landing, Brandon at Moat Cailin and Benjen at the Wall. Ned resides in Winterfell still, that is consolation enough.

Benjen's smile droops. "The news I bring are not good, father." When he visits, he starts with a very formal greeting, slowly falling back on more intimate terms as his stay progresses. Rickard likes that about him. A Black Brother he may be, but he is still a son in his father's home.

"What is this worrisome news you speak of?" Rickard invites him to sit down with a short motion of his head.

"Trouble steers beyond the wall." Benjen fell silent for a few moments after this pronouncement, seemingly in search of the right words. "The Wildlings are leaving their villages in large numbers. I know not what manner of mischief this is, but there are whispers of a King beyond the Wall. Our sources claim that these wild men plan to make for the Wall as an army."

"The Wall has been standing for over eight thousand years. Had these men wanted to cross it, it might have occurred to them to do so when the feat was still possible." The Lord of Winterfell is a friend of the Watch, Rickard remind himself abruptly. "What manner of weaponry do they carry, how many men does their army number, how strong are their warriors and how well provisioned are they on the whole? Is it only an army approaching, or do they come with women and children and suckling babes?"

His son shook his head. "If it were only that, father." There is something akin to fear in his eyes then and dread coils low in Rickard's belly. "Few as we are on the Wall, provided that we could get some men, we would have been able to stop such an attack. Aye, they leave full villages deserted. Women and suckling babes, 'tis certain there are those too."

"This something else you speak of puts terror in your eyes. 'Tis strange to me, this notion." Benjen has always been quick to cover any hint of alarm. Such is his way. But now, the difference is striking. "What could possibly have prompted such a response?"

A haunted look crosses the boy's eyes then. It reminds Rickard of days past when his children were small and night terrors would disturb their sleep. But this is no night terror. He can see it on Benjen's face. It is real, though unbelievable. And yet, what could it possibly be?

"We were returning to the Wall," Benjen began his tale, "and a group of Wildlings happened upon us. We fought and felled most of them eventually, but not before they took down some of out own men. We tied the prisoners, agreeing to question them back at the Wall." His brow creased. "The sun had just gone down when it happened." He raised his eyes to Rickard's own. "And Gods be good, that sight I shan't forget, not ever, for as long as I live."

The world seems to freeze, air becoming thin and bitter. The sun's rays no longer shine as strong. A just of wind comes howling through and chill the very blood in his veins. Rickard waits, strangely out of breath now, as if an icy has wrapped its fingers around his throat.

"The dead got to their feet and attacked us." The word dropped down like a hammer, shaking the very foundation of the keep. "I saw them die. I killed one myself. He was dead. And then he wasn't. There were others too. Walking corpses,"

Rickard leans back in his chair. The story is fantastical, like one of the takes he would hear from Nan as a boy. "I do not think you would ever try to deceive me, but I will need proof."

A nod is his answer. "I have brought proof." He sits up, walking to a small coffer Rickard has not noticed. Benjen opens it and pulls out a hand covered in rotten flesh. The scent of decay is quick to spread about the room. "This gripped my arm so hard it left bruises." He then pulls his sleeve up to reveal the marks on his flesh, black and blue, in the form of fingers.

"Gods protect us all," his voice is quiet, the sort of softness produced by horrifying, blood-curdling fear. "How did you escape?"

"Only we can protect ourselves. With fire." Benjen rolls his sleeve down once more and throws the hand back in the small wooden box. "One of the captives yelled out the word. I suppose dying only to become such a piteous creature was rather unpalatable."

"Fire." Two syllables. One short word. Fire takes one to dragons, dragons lead to Targaryens. But dragons are extinct, though the Targaryens are still around. "I will write to the King. He might think my brain is addled, I grant you. So might your sister. This will ensure that both of them come here with utmost haste." Legends of old are returning with a vengeance and Rickard wonders if all the stories are true.

"We cannot fight the Wildlings and these creatures too. Not on our own. The Night's Watch is not strong enough." Blue and gray crash together.

"Let us hope it does not come to that. The Night's Watch will always have a friend in House Stark." Even after he is gone, Ned will help, as will Brandon Rickard is sure.


	33. xxxiii

Rhaegar gives Lord Baratheon a sideways glance. He knows exactly what Stannis has been trying to tell him. Still, the decision is not easily made. And it shan't be made anytime soon. Pushing that part of the problem aside, he concentrates on the first part of the proposal. "I suppose the boy is old enough," he agreed. It would also go a long way to repair the glaring breach between House Targaryen and House Baratheon. "Very well, my son shall squire for you."

From the corner of his eye he can see Lyanna has finished her dance with the Hightower heir and is making her way back to the dais. He dismisses Stannis with a lazy wave of his hand. Lyanna nods her head to the leaving man. If her manner is somewhat cold, none shall point that out.

"I see you have made a new conquest, my Queen," Rhaegar tells her, as they link fingers under the table. She laughs and squeezes his hand. "You are happy," he notes with a smile of his own.

"Weddings bring me joy, husband," she replies earnestly. "I am extremely fond of the memory of mine own. I was happy that day."

"Because you were marrying me?" The question rushes past unguarded lips. The past is the past, but nostalgia will have him uncover what she felt then. "Did you love me then?"

She tilts her head and bites her lip. "Love? You were kind and understanding and very, very handsome. And I was glad to be your bride." And then she smiles. "My love you earned with each day we spent together."

"And the nights, I hope," he ads lightly, a slightly mischievous expression crossing his face.

His wife takes it with good grace. "Of course," she allows, visibly amused. "The nights most assuredly."

He knows all of this already. "Mayhap I might persuade you to fall even more in love with me." They could sneak away. Most of the guests are too drunk to notice or too enthralled by their own business to care. It should be so very easy. For a moment his pulse quickens as Lyanna's eyes widen slightly and her hand curls tighter around his. Lately they have had a great deal too many problems to deal with, leaving sparse time for emotional fulfilment. He's missed being close to her without eyes upon them to watch their every step.

"They would wonder at our absence," Lyanna says, but there is glee in her voice. "They'll make most scandalous presumptions." She titters, her other hand coming to rest against his thigh. Her eyes shine with what he knows in reflected in his gaze. "And they wouldn't be wrong." If he could, Rhaegar would kiss her right here. He reins in the impulse and throws a look around the grand room.

However, all thought of amorous nature flees his mind when Aeron runs in the room, dusty and frightened and not at all like himself. Not many notice his entrance. But Rhaegar stands to his feet immediately and makes his way down the stairs, Lyanna just one step ahead of him, her gait awkwardly between a walk and a run. His wife's pet is the calmest of them all.

The Queen's mask is put aside giving way to a mother's tender visage. "What happened, Aeron?" Lyanna questions, pulling the boy in her arms. She cradles the back of his head against her shoulder. Rhaegar can see he is shaking.

"Aeron, speak," he adopts a tone he seldom uses with his children, but right now, in this very moment, fear tears at his chest and it is enough to prompt him to do so.

His son looked unsure for a brief moment, but he shakes his head lightly the next and a torrent of words leaves him. "We went down to the catacombs," he starts and Rhaegar can see that the attention of others is upon them. Willas Tyrell is coming closer, Lady Dayne upon his arm. "Rhaegon said we would find dragon eggs." Everyone grows quiet. "Alysanna was convinced we wouldn't. I thought we wouldn't either, but the she fell into a pit and her torch went out and I dropped my torch and we were thrown into the darkness."

"What are you saying?" Lyanna cuts him off. "What happened to your sister?"

Aeron turns his head so he faces his mother. "She found a dragon egg." The boy whispers this, as if he himself cannot quite believe. "I think there were more down there. But this one Alysanna pulled out of the wall."

Whatever other concern he has, Rhaegar leaves them all in the dust. He orders that torches, ladders and ropes be brought. "Can you lead us to them?" he asks his son. "I don't like the thought of them alone there."

It is not long until the sober men trail after him, each carrying something or another that might prove useful. Claw and Rhaegon are apt enough guides and seem sure of the path they take. For his part, Rhaegar is still a bit disbelieving. Dragon eggs, he is not sure what to make of this find. Since the time of the third Aegon, dragons have been lost even to the Targaryens. Many have tried to revive the beasts and many have failed, or worse lost their lives to their foolish attempt. The thought of his own children making the same mistake sends a shiver of fear down his spine. He must protect them.

They find Rhaegon next to a pit in the ground. He stands guard, a beckon of light in a sea of darkness. His sightless son hears their approach. "Aeron, is that you?"

But Lyanna rushes past him and embraces the boy before his brother can answer. She then approaches the edge of the hole and looks down. A light burns there too and as Rhaegar steps behind his wife the sight of his daughter greets him. She holds a torch in one hand and the other clutches the supposed dragon egg to her chest.

The relief he feels in doubles by Lyanna's. The ropes are lowered as the ladder is not nearly tall enough. Rhaegar would go himself but he knows that his leg might cause him trouble. Instead young Willas offers to rescue the Princess. And then he slips inside the cavity, taking the girl in his arms. From here on it is not at all complicated to lift them up and out. As per orders, other men take the Princess' place in the pit, pulling at the earth covering the walls.

Alysanna hugs her mother and presents her father with her find. "I found it. I found it," she repeats excitedly almost jumping up and down in her joy.

"And it is yours to keep, my dear girl," Rhaegar assures her, taking the object in his hands to better examine it.


	34. xxxiv

Daenerys strokes her fingers through the auburn locks on the sleeping Robb Stark. It is a fond gesture, clearly intimate in its nature. She touched him not like a mother though. On this night, Daenerys is the lover; his lover, to be precise. A smile makes its way to her lips.

The sheets restrict her movements and all that Daenerys can really do is snuggle closer into Robb's side, enjoying the warmth he provides. He sighs softly and the grip his arm exerts on her tightens. There is something reassuring about his hold, a primitive pleasure brought on by the contact of two people, skin on skin. It is absolutely delicious. Daenerys fights to suppress a delighted shiver.

She finds herself wondering about her brother and his many warnings. Viserys can be overbearing at times. He has often told her what he thought she should so. Daenerys thinks he worries too much, so she usually takes care to ignore his advice. This time though, she must really think about his words. Not because she has seen any wisdom there, but because, for the first time in a long time, her brother's fears might not be unfounded. It is a momentous occasion.

Viserys is newly married. He has forged an alliance with Dorne. This can only mean that soon it will be her turn to ensure the fact that House Targaryen makes new allies, or strengthens some pre-existing bond. She will have to wed for that. Currently, their alliance with the North is under no danger. The Queen is healthy, and even more she has left her husband heirs. Rhaegar will not have her wedded to Robb. Not unless she can convince him of the merit of such a union.

But who else would he consider for a potential mate for his sister? There is Prince Oberyn Martell who is yet unmarried. A moment of disgust interrupts her thoughts. She wants no Dornishman. If Rhaegar even thinks to give her over to the Dornish sands he will find a new meaning to the word hysteria. Then, Daenerys supposes she must consider Jaime Lannister. While she has nothing against the man, his sister was wedded to Robert Baratheon. She dearly hopes her brother will take that into account. Renly Baratheon is a bachelor too. Quite handsome that one, Daenaerys thinks. Her eyes slide to Robb's profile. Renly can't hold a candle to Robb though. A Velaryion perhaps, she thinks next, or mayhap a foreign Prince.

There are some old stories going around, according to which Mad King Aerys, the father she has no recollection of, wanted to send out people to search for a match with a foreign noblewoman for Viserys. Rhaegar had already been promised to Lyanna Stark by then. Though some do seem to be of a mind that the King actually wanted to find the bride for Rhaegar. It doesn't really matter. Daenerys knows just how happy her oldest brother is with his wife. She can think of no one else standing by his side. The mere thought of a woman not Lyanna sharing the daily troubles of the kingdoms and the joys of the family with Rhaegar is utterly ridiculous. But that might well be Daenerys' mind refusing to accept a different possibility.

Returning her attention to Robb's face, she tries to come up with reasons for which her brother might allow the match. Daenerys' heart skips a beat when the dark thought of separation tears through her. It is a gaping wound, this worry. Whatever she does, it must be done quickly, else she might lose this chance.

Robb is young. He is the heir of Winterfell. Undoubtedly many of old Lord Stark's bannermen have, at some point or another, entertained thoughts of their daughter snaring the heir. How many of them has he lain with? This is the first time she stops to consider it. Robb is not unskilled, not shy of women and their bodies. Instinct can tell Daenerys as much. Some taught him, of course. And she is jealous of every caress and every kiss, even though she knows not who bestowed them upon him. The knowledge stings.

She swallows the protests blooming on her lips. He is a young man, not very different from many others. Viserys once admitted to having paid companions. Why should Robb Stark be deprived of such knowledge? But whores are not lovers. They are release. And they are not to be talked about, or so her Septa has told her – though not in such words, she had preferred the term of 'fallen woman'. The Faith condemns them; that much is clear. She takes comfort in the fact tat she is a lover. What she gives is freely given. Her love cannot be measured in any kind of coin.

"What would you do if my brother gave me to someone else?" The question slips past unguarded lips. No answer comes though. Robb slumbers on, unknowing of the matters troubling her. What wouldn't she give to sleep too? To sleep, to forget, to lose herself in safe unconsciousness; she cannot have that though. 'Tis but she and her worries. Daenerys chews on her bottom lip. "I wouldn't just let them take me," she decides, murmuring the consideration out loud. She is a dragon. Whoever thinks to oppose her will learn a valuable lesson. The dragon knows no law but its own.

Lyanna once told her that beyond the wall it was a custom that a man stole his bride. The thrill of such an escapade shoots through her veins. She could steal her own husband. That was sure to shock everyone. The half digested idea lingers a short while longer before she dismisses it. Much as she is fascinated, Daenerys knows the impossibility of it. She could never carry him off.

But mayhap she might convince Robb to steal her away. Robb's shifts slightly, momentarily pulling her out of her thoughts. They could run away, never looking back. A ship could take them to Essos. They could live there as two simple people. A small house to raise their children in would be enough. And they could work to earn their keep. Surely labour is not that difficult. Robb could probably depend on his sword. It would be a fine thing indeed.

"It is a very nice dream," she whispers to the darkness, now hoping she will not wake her partner. Her dream can still be savoured even if she does not share it with Robb. Her good mood is slowly restored by such maidenly fantasies. Her worry remains, though, hidden behind a skilfully crafted wall. Not ready to face the waking world, Daenerys hides her face against Robb's shoulder and hopes that all will turn out well.

Hope is all she has, if she stops to think about it. And this hope, she will hold on to for now.


	35. xxxv

"Oh, it is beautiful," Elenei exclaims, pressing a hand to her cheek. "Do you not agree, Shireen?" she calls to her cousin who is studying the curiosity before their eyes with attention. "Look at those colours." The Kingsguard gives them a slight smile, no doubt amused at their display. Elenei has the fortitude to smile back, but Shireen shies away, hiding the scars on her face behind her veil.

"I think it's lovely," the other girl agrees nonetheless. "Do you think we may touch it?" The question is addresses, however indirectly, to the guard.

The man shakes his head again, this time in refusal. "None may touch it, but those of Royal blood."

"Then fortune must be desirous to do good," an unfamiliar voice breaks the conversation and whatever further question Shireen would have wanted to put forward.

Turning around, on instinct, Shireen meets the lively gaze of Aeron Targaryen, who is for once not in the company of his siblings. A blush steals across her cheeks. The Prince smiles at her, a bold grin that grips her heart tightly. Shireen nearly scurries back in a panic as he draws closer to them. Both she and Elenei curtsey, murmuring a greeting. Of course, it is her cousin, beautiful and bold and everything Shireen can never hope to be, who breaks the ice.

"You would be so kind, Your Grace?" Elenei questions, wide blue eyes staring almost adoringly at the young lad before them. She is not doing it intentionally, Shireen knows, but for the first time it bothers her, because the Prince has already moved his eyes from her to Elenei, and, as if mesmerised, he stares mutely at her.

"But of course," he finally speaks. Aeron steps between the two of them and takes the alleged dragon egg in his hands.

The scales glint and glimmer in the sunlight, ripples of red and black mingling together. These are the colours of House Targaryen, which makes the find even more fitting. Unable to bear remaining in the shadows – just this once, Shireen promises herself – she reaches out, pressing the tip of her finger to the hard shield that protects the tiny dragon that is still trapped in there. The surface is smooth and hard, and Shireen finds herself more curious than she had anticipated. Aeron, who is now looking at her once more, allows the weight of the egg to be passed to her.

"Do you like it?" he asks, something like wonder in his voice. Elenei too is staring over the Prince's shoulder, her gaze questioning. But the Prince has just now noticed a speck of grey of the otherwise alabaster skin. Shireen knows she is caught, the moment his eyes narrow in suspicion.

"I like it very much," she answers, desperately trying to distract him. Elenei senses her discomfort and is already stepping towards her when the Prince gives the silk covering her ruined cheek a light tug. And without even asking. The protest dies on Shireen's lips before she can voice it. The Prince is touching the dead skin and mortification surges through her. "Your Grace, I–"

Bitter tears starts to blur her vision and she can hear Elenei asking for the silk scarf back, but to her surprise, the Prince refuses to comply. "My lady, there is no need to feel anything but at leisure; you are among friends."

Elenei gasps and then catches the Prince by the arm. And whatever spell had started to trickle between the two people making eye contact is now broken. Shireen gives a demure nod before she curls her fingers around the scarf and pulls it back, holding the cloth to chest. "Nonetheless, Your Grace, I feel more at ease like so."

The Prince considers her words before nodding slowly. "It is a pity, though, my lady." Something in his voice makes her hesitate to wrap the dark flesh again. He takes the egg from her hold gently and hands it to Elenei, so she too may inspect it closely.

Strangely bereft, Shireen places the soft material around her neck. It feel like she has been bereted, but she cannot conjure a reason. Most people are disgusted with her ruined face. They either stare at her face to the point where it becomes uncomfortable or they ignore her in favour of someone more pleasant to gaze upon. Usually that someone is Elenei when they are together. And never before has Shireen minded. After all, Elenei is sweet and deserving of being treated with the respect she is clearly afforded.

She remains quietly by Aeron and Elenei who converse animatedly. She is pleased to listen and to nod or give one-worded answers when she must speak. The dragon egg is placed back, so other people who pass by may admire it.

The three of them move away. The Prince insists that they come to the library with him. Elenei worries that they might disturb the persons already there. "I am not overly fond of songs and poems," she confesses. "Shireen likes both though?"

Aeron's eyes snap to hers. "Do you? Then I must insist. I am certain your cousin will find something to amuse herself with for a short while."

Not many are allowed in the private library of the King. Shireen knows this chance is unlikely to come back if she allows it to pass her by. "If I am not bothering, Your Grace."

Frowning at her, Aeron corrects her gently. "You should just call me Aeron." He smiles then adds, "Both of you, I mean."

"Then we must be Elenei and Shireen to you," her cousin returns. So it is agreed between the three of them.

The library is everything Aeron promised it would be. There are few others here. But one cannot ignore the Aeron's brother, Prince Rhaegon who is sitting by the window, listening to Prince Jon.

Jon pauses in his speech and gives the newly gathered company a friendly nod. Rhaegon looks towards them with unseeing eyes and a small smile paints his lips. "Perhaps you would like to make the introductions, brother."

"I should not," Aeron teases. But he does make the introductions and before long they are, all of them, listening to a rousing interpretation of Symeon Star-Eyes' final battle against the creature that slew him and turned him into a walking corpse.

Sitting next to Prince Rhaegon is less taxing on Shireen's nerves, though also less exciting. But, strangely enough, she cannot protest at it. Prince Rhaegon has a calming effect on her. She eyes his profile and marvels at how close in looks he is to his brother.

"This story always brings me grief," Elenei comments at the end. "But Your Grace has a real gift," she tells Prince Jon who laughs good-naturedly at the compliment.

"I have a lot of practice, my lady," he offers, along with an easy grin.


	36. xxxvi

Brienne of Tarth is not a proper lady. She is more at ease with a sword in her hand than with a flower. Chainmail and breeches wrap her better than any dress ever will. And her face, Brienne grimaces. She will not contemplate that. Brienne is no proper lady and her father insisting that she go to the Capitol is not something she likes. They would laugh at her. They would laugh at her muscular frame, her abnormally large hands, her ungainly arms and legs. Brienne steels herself against the stares and the whispers; there is no stopping them though.

So far, she has managed to avoid most people. For someone her height, Brienne finds that it is so very easy to slip away from crows and hide in dark corners. This also affords her the chance to watch the lords and ladies of the realm at their play. She has heard about this game, Brienne has. They call if the game of thrones, aptly names for the desire of every individual to sit themselves on the King's chair. Maidens from every house are pushed to make an impression upon one of the Princes – upon the eldest, if can be; if not, one of the younger ones will do just as well. The noble sons of these houses most endeavour to win the favour of the Princess who is yet a child for all her charming grace.

Whenever she glances at the Princess, Brienne feels a pang of something in her chest. Alysanna Targaryen is the hero of her day; she is the maid of great courage who has found a dragon egg. This is all anyone talks about at the moment. They all crowd around the find, speaking of prophecies and fanciful wishes. Brienne has also heard that the girl has been allowed, and even encouraged, to pick up a sword. If there is a lady more fortunate in all the Seven Kingdoms, Brienne does not know of her.

It is with such thoughts that the maid of Tarth sneaks out at night to practice with her own steel. This is a habit she indulges in as often as she can. At home she may practice whenever she wishes, but here she is required to hide from sight – her own heart being most insistent on this point. Being used to snide remarks does not make them less hurtful, Brienne has found, not does her height and skin protect her any better. There is, after all, pride in her that cannot be quelled for the sole reason that she does not fit the ideal of beauty held in such high regard at court.

She knows what she is, and while she is no lady, she is – or will be, as soon as she can manage it – a knight. Her resolve grows with every breath she takes, steeling itself and dispelling any doubts that occasionally steal upon her. Brienne holds the sword up high and brings it down and to her left in one fluid motion. Her graces always shine in the training yard. Someone once told her that sword fighting is to her what dancing ought to be to a maiden.

"Upon my word," a slightly sarcastic voice breaks through the layers of Brienne's concentration, forcing her exercise to a halt. A soft curse spills past her lips as she stumbles on a rock and nearly falls. She manages to catch a flash of green and the glint of gold, and knows beyond any doubt who spoke.

"Lord Lannister," she says, not quite a greeting. And then she waits for cruel laughter, or perhaps the Lannisters prefer subtlety.

"That's my father, wench. Lord Lannister, indeed, I am Jaime Lannister." The flat of his sword slaps against her back. "Straighten yourself. No amount of hunching will make you look any less like a giantess." Curiously enough, the words do not hold the bite she has come to expect.

"My name is not wench," she murmurs; not too loudly though, he may feel the need to reply. And she doesn't want that. She just wants him to stop circling her like a vulture and leave her to her sword. Her mumbling made him stop. He gave her a sharp look.

"What was that wench? You'll have to speak louder." Green eyes glinted with mischief. He has heard her. She glares at him, eyes narrowing. "Come now, I know your graces are somewhat lacking, but even you must have had a septa to teach you proper manners."

Her colour rises, and Brienne curses the blush in her mind. "My name is Brienne, not wench," she insists, this time in a tone of voice that brooks no arguments. Her father would have been impressed. Jaime Lannister is decidedly harder to make an impression upon unfortunately.

"Raise your arm," he orders with a smirk so impertinent that Brienne has half a mind to slap it off his face. But she catches herself just in time. "Show me your grip on that sword, wench." She wonders if he is pulling her leg, but his mien suggests that he means business. Most mans would have been laughing by now. He doesn't laugh. There is a vague curiosity in his eyes as she gives in and follows his instruction. Might be that will send him on his way.

But Jaime, far from being satisfied, strides forward to adjust her hold to a different angle. "Try this one, wench." And he motions for her to make a cut with the blunted steel. Brienne hopes she catches him in the shoulder when she does make the cut.

:My name is Brienne, Ser," she grunts, swinging the sword again in warning. He might be on to something though, for she can feel a difference in her fluidity already.

"Ah, the wench has some spark. Good to know." He crosses his arms and offers her another affronting smirk. "On the morrow after you break your fast, come down here."

The starts of a protest bubbles on her lips. "Ser Jaime, I cannot possibly-"

"No excuses." He follows the declaration with a compelling look that must have the squires falling all over themselves to do his bidding. Brienne simply looks back in confusion.

This is all quite much for her to take in. Not only is she not mocked, but Ser Jaime Lannister – formerly of the Kingsguard – wants to see her on the morrow, here, again. "Why would I listen to you, good Ser?" It might be one of those tricks sometimes men try to play on her. Better to be safe than sorry.

"Just bring your sword and be here." And with that Jaime turns his back on her and walks away, whistling a merry tune that just might be "Six Maids in a Pool". She watches him go with awe.

Brienne does, rather heroically, resist the urge to pinch her arm.


	37. xxxvii

Tyrion looks up with interest as the sound of hooves pounding the ground breaks his concentration. Mismatched eyes land on a figure dresses in the darkest black he has ever seen, as dark as a raven's feather, as dark as pitch. He knows only of the Black Brothers dressing thus. The man seems travel-weary and his clothing is dusty and well-worn, but the thin face that turns towards Tyrion reminds him of someone.

The features are unmistakable close to the Queen's. That is when Tyrion remembers that the Lyanna Stark's youngest brother has joined the Night's Watch. And now he comes to court, no doubt to beg money of his sister, or men to man the walls of those icy keeps he dwells in.

But the development is too interesting for Tyrion not to put aside his books. He leaves it in the hay, knowing that someone will pick it up and take it back where it belongs. One of the stable boys has just taken the horse of this unknown Stark and is leading the beast towards its stall.

"A brother of the Watch, I presume," Tyrion speaks, infusing his voice with that Lannister pride Jaime has taught to him.

The man looks down with some surprise. "Indeed. I am guessing that you are Tyrion Lannister. I am Benjen." The dwarf should not be at all amazed. He is famous after all. The Stark gives him a small bow. "Do you happen to know where I can find the Queen?"

It's merely conversation, Tyrion realises. Benjen knows exactly where to find his sister. But, even so, the Lannister agrees to lead the way. Tyrion barely notices the small satchel Benjen carries, but as soon as his eyes land on it, unease rolls inside of him. He tears his gaze away.

The Queen is to be found in her private rooms, joined by a noticeably carrying Lady Dayne. The two women welcome them into their fold, but Tyrion still has the distinctive feeling that they've interrupted something of some import. Lady Dayne starts to excuse herself, but neither the Queen, nor her guest think it necessary that she leave, Tyrion to is to stay.

Accepting those words without much of a fuss, Tyta rearranges herself against the pillows and Tyrion is invited to sit next to her. The lady gives him a small smile before focusing her attention on the Black Brother of the Watch, her face becoming chalk white. Tyrion thinks his eyes must be playing tricks on him.

"Do speak, Benjen," the Queen encourages him after she has kissed both his cheeks and embraced him in greeting.

A tale follows. But so gruesome and so frightening is this relation from the North that Tyrion finds himself disbelieving it almost instantly. The dead do not rise, nor can they attempt murder. However, Benjen claims to have proof. The small satchel he came in with is unbound and from within it a small chest is brought out. The wooden lid is removed and from within comes forth the remnant of an enemy. The decayed flesh steals a gasp from the Queen and a discomforting noise from her female companion. Tyrion watches the bit of evidence with curious eyes. Rolling his sleeve up, Benjen Stark shows to them the marks felt on his skin.

Whatever any of them might wish to say, whatever question they may feel the need to pose must wait for a sharp yell distract them. Tyrion looks down to see at Lady Dayne's feet a slowly gathering pool of blood. The red drips forth in small drops. Stunned, he can do no more but stare, eyes moving from the red stain to the twisting face of Tyta Frey.

More composed than them, the Queen knows exactly what must be done. She charges her brother with carrying the woman to the sleeping chamber where she is to be put in bed. Tyrion cannot look away from the sight. He wonders if his own mother looked thus when she birthed him. It seems a painful business, this giving of life. Lady Dayne releases a keen that sounds caught between ache and despair. Is she to have the same fate as Joanna Lannister? The though rankles.

A young Maester is admitted into the chamber. Tyrion can but watch through the cracked door as the man kneels and lifts the lady's skirts. He hears that the babe is too early, and then a heavy silence settles over the three people in the room. Tyrion does wish he might have witnessed more, but the door is closed after the Queen makes her way out, her pretty face marred by worry. The dwarf bites his tongue against the urge to question what goes on behind those closed doors. The Queen must know, she has children of her own.

Yet no one is willing to indulge him by now and the general mood is tense. A few servants are scurrying in with water and fresh linen. The Queen says something to one of them, before walking back towards her guests. "Pray do not be too disturbed," she speaks to them, her expression regaining some of its original tranquillity. "I do believe, Tyrion Lannister, that you were most shocked of us all." Her smile is kind and she does not grimace at his twisted form. Never has Tyrion been so close to her before. He can understand why Lyanna Stark is so well liked.

"I suppose," Tyrion replies absently. "She shall be fine, will she not?" His own mother has not survived the experience, but most women seem to. Perhaps the muffled yells coming from the adjoined room are a sign that all is yet well.

Benjen Stark has quite another question. "Do you think it had to do with-"

"Oh, don't be absurd," the Queen chides him lightly. "It could not have influenced a thing. It is in the hands of the gods, my brother." She turns her eyes away and gazes at Tyrion. "She shall be fine, my little lordling, for our prayers are with her."

There is very little left to do at this point. Tyrion gazes back at the half rotten hand. It lies innocently enough on the table where it had been forgotten. There is something about it though, something which cannot be termed anything but sinister. Tyrion gulps and walks closer to it. He takes it in his own hands and inspects it closely. There is nothing to be found. No answers illuminate his mind. All is not well though, and somehow it connects back to the hand brought from the frozen North.

Queen Lyanna brings him the small chest and the hand is buried beneath ice. They close the lid and wrap the chest back in the satchel. "I shall speak to His Majesty, Benjen, and you shall come with me. It shall be as soon as I am able."


	38. xxxviii

The small birds thrill a cheerful song, their feathers shining in the sunlight. Alysanna looks at them thoughtfully, for some unknown reason unable to enjoy them like she usually does. There is something in the air which makes her uneasy. The Princess heaves a sigh and lowers herself on the green grass, gathering her skirts around her. Something is afoot, that much she knows. Yet the issue eludes her with the obstinacy of a mule.

Alysanna leans her chin on her knees and closes her eyes. At least she may still enjoy her afternoon with Ser Jaime and her brother. Jon has promised to help her with one of those cuts he so skilfully executes. In only time would hurry and pass faster. In the absence of anything to do, Alysanna grows fidgety. Rhaegon is not feeling quite the thing today and Aeron has opted to stay with their brother, which leaves her quite alone as Jon is busy with his own problems. The Princess doesn't exactly mind, but she does wish there was someone. And she is very excited as Ser Jaime promised that he would introduce her to someone.

A sound from somewhere beyond the tree distract her attention momentarily. Alysanna straightens her back, ready to bolt, but then she heard her father's voice and instantly relaxes. It might be that mother had decided to join father on his walk. Alysanna is about to return to her own musings when the familiar voice of Arthur Dayne joins in with her father's. Now this is curious and worth exploring. Closing her eyes to better concentrate, Alysanna tries to catch the meaning of what is being said.

"It is a pity," Lord Dayne is saying, "the match was brilliant. Do you think there is nothing to be done?"

"A heart can hardly change," her father replies. Alysanna wonders who in the name of the god old and new they speak about. "I fear we may have miscalculated. It could bring us a lot of strife."

"The Prince is not unknowing in this matter. His Grace shall do what is expected," Arthur Dayne offers. There is a slight tremor in his voice as if he isn't quite sure of himself. "Your brother knows where his duty lies."

"I wished him happy, Arthur," the King answered. "But this goes beyond indifference. It is active dislike. I can see it in his face."

"There is nothing for it, Your Majesty. They are wedded and the bride has been bedded. It remains to them to make what they will of it." That truth is an uncomfortable weight on Alysanna's chest. She must remember to look with more attention to uncle Viserys and mayhap even to cheer him up.

Though she cannot quite understand what there is not to like in Arianne Martell. She is unlike the ladies she has known all her life, but Alysanna would hesitate to name that a bad quality. Arianne Martell is much freer in her behaviour and that should serve to endear her to her husband, not tear them apart. How very strange the world they live in is.

"What of Prince Jon, Your Majesty," Arthur is asking now. "Has anything been decided yet."

"The only thing that has been decided is that it won't be Alysanna he weds," Rhaegar replies. "The Queen has been most adamant and I must agree on this point."

Relief fills Alysanna. Not because she does not love Jon, she does. But he is her brother and while she does know that other sisters had loved their brothers differently, she feels nothing for Jon that is not strictly the love of a sibling. Yet this talk makes her aware that Jon must be warned. Father is certainly willing to allow him a choice, but Alysanna wants to make sure her brother knows all this beforehand. It pays to be prepared.

Just as she is about to turn around and quietly leave, a hand touched her shoulder and a voice whispers, "What are you doing here?"

Startled, Alysanna barely manages to hold in an undignified yell. Burning violet eyes turn towards a smiling Bran Stark. "What am I doing here? What are you doing here? Did you run out of walls to climb?" she hissed, shoving his hand away. "Oh, my heart. It hurts."

Her cousin laughs behind his palm. It doesn't really endear him to Alysanna, but she smiles back at him anyway. "You'll live," Bran replies. "I just want to know when you'll hatch the dragon egg." Alysanna wants to reply that she doesn't know, but apparently Bran is not done talking. "I had a strange dream about a three-eyes crow and it said the egg must hatch."

For a moment she is frozen, remembering nights filled with terrors and her brother's soft cries. "Does it happen often?" Bran looks at her as if she were speaking to him in High Valyrian. "The dreams," she clarifies.

Bran shrugs. "Often enough." He leans in. "I'll tell you a secret. I think they aren't merely dreams." Alysanna almost rolls her eyes at that. "I met a boy, a crannogman, and he said something about seers and greensight. He told me something bad was going to happen and that I would have to learn how to fly." Bran stops and seems to think about something for a moment. "But that I don't believe. Neither does Maester Luwin."

Having listened in fascination, Alysanna nods her head. "This boy you've met, has he come here too?" She must speak with the boy. He might know something that would help Rhaegon. If not she'll go with the tale to mother.

"Nay, crannogmen do not leave their swamp. He was only visiting Winterfell with his sister and his father," Bran says as if she is quite foolish for having asked.

"What is his name?" Alysanna pushes on, not minding one bit if she looks insane to him. :Tell me, Bran. 'Tis important that I know the boy's name."

"Jojen Reed." After he replies his eyes go wide. "He said you would ask." But then again it's an easy thing to guess.'

Standing to her feet, Alysanna drags Bran up too. "Come with me. We must see mother."

"My mother?" Bran questions. "Please don't. She'll only scold me for climbing again."

"Not your mother," she answers exasperated. "My mother. I want you to tell her about the dreams and about this Jojen Reed." If only she could get him to move. "Come away now, Bran. I haven't all day."

Thankfully, her cousin, now assured that he won't be punished for his climbing adventures, follows her down the narrow path.

The odd must be in her favour this day for Alysanna has taken no more than a dozen steps when she comes face to face with her oldest brother. Flanking him are Rhaenys Dayne and Margaery Tyrell. Now she can tell him.


	39. xxxix

Cersei narrows her eyes at Brandon, the dress sliding off one of her shoulders. The lioness in her lets out a mighty roar and wishes she could jump at the throat of the impertinent wolf who thinks he may commands her. "Do you not see, Brandon, that you have been cheated of your birthright?" she questions harshly, hands planted firmly on her hips. "I cannot conceive of a more heinous treatment."

An angered Brandon stands to his feet and walks around like a caged animal. "And what would you have me do? Kill my brother?"

The words are spoken with a deep disgust that Cersei feels reverberating through her. It only amplifies her own revulsion. She is sick and tired of being treated like she does not matter. She is no longer a silly girl who follows her father's orders like clockwork. Cersei is a mother and a fighter and a survivor. She is a Lannister. More importantly she is ambitious. To think that all her partners are nothing but mediocre is stunning and hurtful.

"You would be content to live the rest of your life in exile while your brother enjoys comforts that should have been yours?" The incredulity in her voice is feigned in such a manner that even Cersei is inclined to believe herself. She has to somehow wake in this man the desire for more. Else all she will ever be is the wife of a traitor. "Brandon Stark, I thought better of your."

"There is nothing to be done" he continues stubbornly. "Mayhap you ought to find a better mate." The suggestion is bitter, filled with jealousy that Cersei has cultivated since the early days of their affair. Brandon thinks that he has a right over her. He thinks that because she carries his brat, he may speak to her whichever way he likes. "Ah, wait; there is the small matter of our child."

It is still within the early stages, so the pregnancy is barely visible. Cersei refrains from acquainting Brandon with her real feelings on the matter. If she hopes for a strong claim, she must endure lying in the birthing bed once more. Further even, she must deliver a male child. "I have not forgotten," Cersei hisses through her teeth. And then, quite suddenly she stops and inhales deeply. She falls conveniently on a cahir and Brandon rushes to her, taking her hand in his.

"What is it? Do I need to call the maesters?" His brow is furrowed, the worry evident. Cersei barely holds back a smirk of triumph.

"I am fatigues, 'tis all," she assures him with a faint voice. "I did not mean to cause you any annoyance." Her eyes fill with tears and she breathing grows laboured as she makes a show of attempting to hold her tears at bay. "But I worry, Brandon. Why is it that we should depend on your brother's charity? If something were to happen to us, what would become of this child I carry? And what of my Elenei?"

"Nothing shall happen," Brandon tells her firmly. "You, Elenei and the child will be safe. We shall wed as soon as I am no longer in mourning." Only a few months have passed since the untimely death of his first wife. What an unfortunate accident that had been. "Have a little patience."

"How much longer, Brandon? How much longer must I suffer in your absence, wondering if you have not found a woman you think better than me, worthier, more beautiful." She clings to his sleeve, her wide eyes luminous with tears. "Oh, answer me, Brandon."

"There is no one better than you," he speaks, sliding his lips against hers. "It shall be soon."

"How soon?" Cersei insists. She needs assurance, she needs to know all her planning is not in vain. "It is taking too long. Wed me today, Brandon. Wed me when the sun goes down. We could find a Septon, or we could wed ourselves in the godswood." She giggles at the thought.

Queen Lyanna is known to pray in that godswood. What would her face look like if she discovered the place defiled. The thought is absolutely delicious.

Brandon laughs harshly. "Today, tomorrow, if it were up to me I would wed you this very instant." He is that taken with her. Cersei has made sure of it. "Don't worry. We shall be wed, and soon, very soon. And then we'll see. You, me, our children, we will be happy."

"And Elenei?" This is the best chance she had to rid herself of the cursed Baratheon name that stains her daughter's otherwise spotless reputation. "Oh, won't you have pity on the poor fatherless child. She looks up to you, you know."

"Elenei will be my daughter. She shall have my name to protect her." These words make Cersei's face light up. "I told you, there is nothing I wouldn't do to see you happy."

It is on the tip of Cersei's tongue to order him to jump out the window. Only that would make her happy. How she loathes the man. Of course, Robert was worse. All men are the same. There is only one exception, only one unfaltering hero and he shall never glance her way.

Even as a little girl, Cersei had dreamt of being wed to the then Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. And she has had a chance. Until Lyanna Stark came along and stole Rhaegar from her. Rhaegar is now unattainable. However, he had sons. And these sons would grow up Princes, Kings. And Cersei, she has a daughter. True, Rhaegar would never be hers, but Elenei would see her crown one way or another. These are dreams which she cannot let go of. They are the sole reason of her existence. She fights for her daughter. And someday, when Elenei is older, the child will understand and she will help her mother in these endeavours, Cersei is sure. Until that time, the work falls to her.

"You cannot know how happy you make me." Cersei rewards her lover with sweet kisses. She is so very close to reaching her goal. "I love you, Brandon Stark. beyond what words can say." She melts in his arms and allows him to carry her over to the bed.

"If you love me so much, then sleep. The babe needs the rest and so do you." He bends down and presses a kiss to her temple. Cersei closes her eyes and pretends sleep, she barely even moves. Brandon enjoys watching her slumber, so his presence is to be tolerated a while longer.

Blessedly enough, the door finally creaks open and then is closed gently. Cersei sits up, eyes glinting with undisguised victory. How well she had done for herself. Now all that remains to do concerns her little Elenei.

It shall work out, that the lioness promises to herself.


	40. xl

Willas sighs for the hundredth time, the main difference being that this time the sigh is a mark of relief as opposed to all the other times when it was a sign of annoyance. He ought to have kinder thought in this regard, but filial duty and affection can only stretch that long. At the moment, the Tyrell heir is glad enough to have finished the length and uncomfortable discussion he'd been having with his father.

Apparently, it is his duty to make sure that Prince Jon notices Margaery and favour her over any other, especially over the new Dornishwomen that have arrived to King's Landing recently. How he is to accomplish that, his father had no idea, but he trusts Willas to think of something. As if securing the affections of someone is a matter of planning.

Tiredly, he brings a hand to the back of his neck and rubs a sore spot there. With everything that had been happening, Willas has been finding more and more frustrating the fact that he cannot seem to have a moment of intimacy with Sansa Stark. If one of her siblings isn't around, them Margaery is, or one of her cousins, or, just once, Catelyn Stark. It's not like Willas has been plotting to spirit her away. Though, now that he thinks about it, such a scheme does have its merits.

The time has come to act. Margaery will have to charm her Prince on her own. Willas has his own Lady to think of. Squiring in the North, Willas is well aware that his character has been assessed and judged and judged and assessed a thousand times over, not only by Lord Stark, but also by Sansa's parents. If anything, old Rickard Stark had seemed in favour of the match, occasionally asking the Highgarden heir when he planned to whisk his granddaughter away.

Well, he won't have to wonder much longer. Willas is just about to pass by one of the door leading to an unused solar when a muttered curse stops him. Curious, he peers through the small crack to see the familiar figure of Prince Viserys slumped in a chair. The Prince is labouring over a bottle of something, every now and again letting out a string of imprecations. Thinking it would be better to leave him be, Willas makes to step away and depart, but it is at this point that Viserys looks up and sees him.

Blushing to the roots of his hair, Willas is unsure what to do. He just stands there, staring at the Prince who is looking back at him with something akin to anger. But the rage fades, giving way to recognition.

"Come on in and close the door," Viserys orders. It must come natural to him. Willas obeys without a word, not having much choice in this respect. "Were you looking for someone?" Viserys questions, his voice uncommonly thick.

"Sansa Stark," Willas barely manages to say. He clears his throat and tries again. "I was searching for Sansa Stark."

Viserys nods. "Aye, I remember now. You and my cousin are–" He stops there. Confusion blooms on his face for a brief moment but it is quickly replaced by something else. Willas wonders just how fast the Prince sorts through his emotions. "You and my cousin," Viserys repeats.

"Your Grace, are you well?" Willas asks, more to be polite than anything. Viserys Targaryen is three sheets to the wind, that much is clear.

"Well?" the Prince parrots. He looks to be genuinely considering the question. "I am well enough. But not happy. You do not know how lucky you are, Willas Tyrell." If they have ever spoken, they haven't exchanged more than a few words, Willas is certain. That the Prince should know his name even in his current condition is unexpected. "You and my cousin both. Very lucky."

The rumours must be true then. The birds have started twittering that the Prince has been unlucky in his marriage, that unlike his brother, Prince Viserys had found no comfort in the arms of his wife. Willas doesn't know what to say to him. He doesn't know what the appropriate thing would be to say. But apparently he is not needed to open his mouth.

"The important thing is to find some happiness," the Prince chuckles. "Here, have a drink with me." Willas hesitates. "Come, sit, drink," Viserys insists.

They end up drinking more than just a cup together. While Viserys does not unburden himself, Willas can feel the weight leave his shoulders. Perhaps companionship is all the Prince needs. The silence which falls between them is not a strained thing. It is rather comfortable actually.

But he still hasn't found Sansa. As if sensing the agitation underneath his calm exterior, the Prince smiles. "You'd best be on your way, else your maiden fair just might find another knight to sigh over." His voice holds both amusement and longing, which is a strange combination indeed.

Yet Willas is beyond caring. He leaves the room with a lively step, a boyish grin on his face and hope in his heart. It is the nature of every human being to take comfort in the misfortunes of other as far exceeding their own. In this light life seems brighter, better, more beautiful. The sadness of the prince has much the same effect on Willas. He is determined to do what he has promised to Sansa he shall.

Thinking that he might find her in her bedchamber, Willas walks down the hall, hardly paying any mind to the scurrying servants. They are all rather agitated, but he cannot be bothered with them. A young woman is carrying a small bassinet of water, the liquid sloshing over the rim to wet her front. Another one had an armful of linens to bring and she can barely see where she is going. Thankfully, Willas manages to avoid knocking into any of them. But he must wonder at their hurry. Still, it wouldn't be right to disturb their rhythm.

As he is climbing down the stairs, a maester makes his way up, his face grave. Willas, driven by the same curiosity that usually manages to land him in all sorts of interesting situations, must stop the man for information. "Is there something amiss, master?"

"I cannot rightly say," the man replies. His eyes and kind and gentle and the answer settled the worry that has started to bloom within Willas. If something is amiss, they will be told in due time.

Shrugging, Willas hurries down the stairs and enters a side corridor. Sansa's room is somewhere next to her sister's. The door has been marked with. Willas finds it easily enough. He knocks on the door and it opens for him. Sansa's pleased expression greets him. Over her shoulder Septa Mordane scowls at him.

Willas sweeps them both a bow.


	41. xli

Amid sobs, the small unfortunate creature was wrapped in soft white linen. Tyta stared at the Maester, her eyes wide, her mouth twisted in agony. "My babe," she managed to speak. But, apparently, her voice could barely be heard, for the Maester simply shook his head.

"My lady, 'twould be best to not look." He held the bundle to his chest. However, when he saw the fire burning in her eyes, his own attention returned to her. A midwife was still by the basinet.

"My babe," Tyta insisted. The pallor of her face seemed to grow tenfold as the man neared her. She could barely wait for the man to do as she bade him. "My babe." Those were the only words she managed to get past her lips.

The Maester lowered the silent child into awaiting arms. Careful, as if handling the most fragile spun glass piece to have seen the light of day, Tyta peeled the linen away to peer at the deformed visage of a creature that looked barely human. A choked sob was forced past her lips, dragged from between clenched teeth. A mother could withstand a great deal for love of her children. But the sight that greeted her left the taste of ash on her tongue and fear deep within her soul.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. "I cannot–" she cried. "Mother have mercy." The Maester hurried to pluck the bundle from her, when she produced such a wrenching howl that on instinct he drew back, muscle tense in preparation.

"The sheets," exclaimed the midwife. She had already lifted the pristine linens and was peering beneath them as the patient grew louder and louder in her agony. Gore spread anew beneath her, the flow of the blood to strong for the rags to withstand.

In a panic, Tyta tried to push herself up, slipping and knocking her head against the pillows. She was quickly held down by the midwife, the Maester taking the woman's place. "Have hope yet, my lady," the woman said, her sour breath fanning against Tyta's cheek. Her smile was possible the cruellest act bestowed upon her. Struggling against the oppressive hold, Tyta gave a cry of frustration. Pain shot through her. But the vile woman would not allow her freedom. In vain did she bestir herself. "None of that now. Breath and push."

The familiar ache of labour gripped her again. Tyta, disoriented and afraid, let out a shriek so fearsome that she feared she'd frightened the child from ever leaving her womb. It would have been for the best. Yet it was not to be had. And fear, pure, unadulterated fear twisted her insides painfully. Mayhap the gods had no mercy for her. Mayhap she hadn't prayed hard enough to the Mother.

"My lady, you must push," the Maester cut through the train of her thought, bright eyes looking at her over the linens and blankets. He turned to say something to the midwife who nodded and rushed to the door. "My lady, now. It must be now. Push!" the man insisted.

Scrambling to gather her courage, Tyta concentrated all her strength on pushing. The pain flared and she allowed her head to fall back with a keen. But the Maester would not let her be. Soon the midwife joined in. The woman moved to hold her hand. Callused fingers touched her own soft flesh. Tyta gripped hard and laboured, placing her hope in the hands of the Seven. If only one of her babes survived, even at the cost of her own life, then Tyta was sure she could die a happy woman, or at least without regrets.

It was a strange notion, that of death. At any other time, she would have sobbed at the mere thought. But as she found herself a hairsbreadth away from the Stranger's hold, only calmness stole over her. Perhaps it was the inevitability. Or mayhap it had to do with knowing that her child would still have a loving family even were she to perish.

Someone spoke over her but the words were muffled, quiet, as if they came from far away. She was surrounded by darkness. "You must push, my lady, else the little one won't be able to come out." Thos words forced her to open her eyes. The midwife was staring down at her. "Come now, one more push," she promised.

Sapped of strength as she'd been, Tyta could but plead with the Seven to help her once more. Panting and faint, she searched within herself every last ounce of vigour, calling it in her hour of need. She had to. Tyta rose herself on her elbows and gnashed her teeth, hurling herself into one last push.

A thin cry filled the air only moments later. Through a hazy vision she saw the Maester lifting a blood-covered, screeching creature. Fresh tears poured forth. The babe was cleaned and placed in her arms. The pink face stared up at her, scrunched in agitation and distaste. It was the most beautiful thing she ever seen. Her sweet babe.

"A son," the midwife announced softly. "He's a bit small." He had come too early.

"And the other?" Tyta finally questioned. She hadn't had the heart to looks. Her son settled against her warmth, gurgling.

"A daughter. She had been much too small." It was the only comfort she would receive, Tyta knew. The midwife had already started pulling the soiled sheets away.

Mother for the first time and she had already lost a child. Yet she had also gained one. Tyta looked adoringly at the babe in her arms. Her fatigue was momentarily forgotten, taken as she was with her new son. The bleeding heart within her pulled in two different directions. What was one supposed to do? Mourn or rejoice? The answer refused to come to her, leaving the mother torn between two instincts, the dichotomy ripping through her very soul.

The door opened to admit her husband. Tyta did not have to look up to know. The sound of his step was enough. She heard the exchange that passed between, but could not pay it much mind. Arthur sat on a chair next to the bed as she looked up. Tyta could not manage a smile, but she rocked the child nonetheless, hoping that her husband understood.

"A son, my lord," she presented him the boy. The daughter she could not mention, for they hadn't really had her, had they? Nay, she had never been theirs.

Arthur's eyes rested on the wrapped bundle that the Maester was taking out. He blinked once, twice, then turned his eyes upon the child in her arms. He leaned in, holding a finger to the boy's soft cheek. The babe caught his finger in a tiny fist.

"He is perfect," Arthur said.

A weight was lifted from Tyta's shoulders in that instant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I have traumatized you, happy holidays everyone.


	42. xlii

Since it is never that trouble comes alone, Rhaegar finds his ears filled with more than one tale at the same time. Lyanna is the one who recounts the events to him and hold the small chest out for him to inspect. Her brother is close at her heel, his mien serious and so unlike the boy Rhaegar had know. Yet there is the same air of protectiveness about him as he stands near his sister.

The King would smile, if the news were better. As it is, he cannot help wanting to see the disgusting evidence. "And you say this appendage came to life."

"Indeed," Benjen answers, his eyes steely. They stare at one another for a long moment. Rhaegar still has his doubts. The dead do not simply come back to life.

"My brother speaks the truth," Lyanna insists, perhaps sensing the disbelief. Her hand touches his in a silent plea. "Let his take those who have been thrown in the dungeons and arm them at the Wall. Send forth a man you trust so that he might witness similar events to those my brother speaks of."

The Queen's suggestion rings in the room, falling between the three of them like a rain of pebbles. Rhaegar considers the matter, eyes shutting for a moment. He feels the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, but resists the impulse heroically.

"And who would you suggest I send, my lady wife?" he asks Lyanna. It would be useless to ask her brother, for the man knows not the lords and knights of the court.

His wife's eyes narrow. She has heard the slight in his voice and is not at all pleased. Rhaegar grimaces at her. "I should say Lord Beric Dondarrion, Your Majesty," she hisses unperturbed by his glare. Lyanna, may the gods keep her, is as stubborn as a mule; something Rhaegar has had the opportunity to learn quite early in their marriage. When she believes herself to be in the right, there is no dissuading her.

Whatever shall his lords say of him when he sends Bric Dondarrion to the Wall. Perchance that the King had either lost his mind, not unlike his father before him, or that the he is so taken with his wife that if she were to order the poisoning of every fountain in the realm, he himself would spill the first drops on the wretched stuff in the water. Neither view reflects on him in a particularly favourable manner. And yet he cannot refuse Lyanna. His clenches his fists and almost snaps his jaw at her.

But Lyanna has already titled her head back, a haughty expression on her face. She dares him to call her a liar. There is still a large amount of pride running through his wife's and indulging her hadn't seemed to help matters. Her mouth is set in a stubborn line. If he does not answer soon, she will start speaking again and there will be no peace then.

"Very well," Rhaegar grounds out unwillingly. "You shall have the men and Lord Beric will travel north with you, Benjen Stark."

"You are most gracious, Your Majesty." The pup hasn't lost his insolence. Rhaegar waves him away, in no mood whatsoever to deal with sarcasm at this point.

Lyanna remains in the room with him. Her eyes soften and her mouth curls in a smile when the door is closed behind them. She walks around the desk, all the while Rhaegar watches her, and perches herself on his lap, arms wrapping around him. She means it as praise, though Rhaegar could misunderstand the gesture if he wished to. His wife holds his gaze, leaning in to rest her head on his shoulder. The weight of her pushes against him, arm and familiar. His chagrin dissipates in the silence and his arms come to hold her against him, coiled about her waist. Lyanna presses her lips to his cheek over and over again, moving closer to his mouth by degrees.

A chuckle speeds past his lips. "You'll be the death of me," he says against her mouth. She stops any further words, her murmur of agreement lost in their kiss.

"I trust my brother," she tells him after, fingers toying with a strand of his hair, twisting it around – much like she does him, actually. "There is something there. If Benjen says so, there must be."

He won't win this one, Rhaegar decides. "If there is, Dondarrion will see it and report it back to us." He grows weary of discussing the subject. Rhaegar sighs. "Tell me there is no more unpleasant news to be delivered."

"I cannot promise that," Lyanna laughs lightly. After all this time, she has come to expect her days to be filled with solving grievances and carrying for problems, her own and those of others too. Leaving him for a more secure place on one of the chairs, Lyanna waits for him to speak again.

"Viserys–" Rhaegar starts, wondering even now what he might do to help.

"I know," Lyanna cuts him off. "Rhaegar, they shall have to work it out for themselves. They are not us."

"He is my brother." A person under his protection.

"And mine," the Queen counters softly. "But you know very well the requirement of their positions." Love is hardly of any concern. His wife is right. And yet. "Let him find his path, husband. Now is not the time to intervene."

Agreement is the only reaction. "I have received a most interesting proposition." That ensnares his wife's attention. "I wanted you to be the first to know."

The message makes its way into her hands. Rhaegar waits quietly for her to devour and digest the words. she reads. It takes Lyanna little enough. Her head snaps up right after she is done. Her eyes regard him strangely. "Do you think it could be true?"

"If you rising dead are true, wife, why would this not be?" He smiles to soften the sting of the reply. He knows that Lyanna won't take it to heart.

Her lips purse in indecision. She worries the paper between her fingers and blinks rapidly. "This is so very much, Rhaegar. The price must be tremendous." There is hesitancy in her voice. This is not unexpected. And not unwelcome by any means.

"Indeed, it would require a steep price. But 'tis not one we cannot pay. What I wish to hear, is what you think of the worth of it." He regards her with a serious face, all trace of warmth seeping from his eyes.

"If it be as the message claims, then I say aye. The gods have their own timing, husband." The reminder crashes into him and Rhaegar can but nod.

"Right you are." She hands him the paper. "I'll offer him a reply presently."

"Do," Lyanna encourages.


	43. xliii

Daenerys murmurs in protest as Robb makes to pull away. Her hold on his shoulders grows tighter and she breathes in deeply, as if she were trying to fill her lungs with him, as if she feared she would forget then moment he lets go. Robb complies if only because he doesn't want to let go either. It is foolish of him perhaps. Then again, seldom are men wise, and even less so when under the spell of love. That is what this is, after all. Love.

A curse upon his heart, Robb thinks without a trace of spite. He loves and his head drown in that every time his eyes come upon Daenerys. The Princess traces her lips across his cheek, a reminder, an oath, a promise. Robb clings to her, his grip tight and secure.

"Stay," Daenerys says. "Stay here with me. I'll speak to my brother." There is worry is her voice. "He'll allow it. I know that he will." Her eyes are wide with misery, her lips atremble as she tries to hold back her sobs. She has only just put a stop to them earlier.

"I have to go," Robb replies, powerless in this matter. "You know that." He plants a soft kiss to the crown of her head, slow and tender. "I swear to you that I'll come back. I swear. Take heart." He does wish he could remain, but there is no reason for him to do so. "Remember," he begins, "what I told you that night?"

They have been referring to their first meeting as that night for as long as the Starks have been staying in King's Landing. If Robb was to say that he'd found his purpose on that night, it would doubtlessly sound cliché, but it would be the absolute truth. And that he'd said to the Princess, whispering the words softly in her ear as she fell asleep.

"I remember," Daenerys confirms. She steps a little bit away from his, her arms growing lax. "So long as you return to me, I can endure anything." The conviction in her voice touches the very heart of him and her smile warms him to the depths of his soul.

Unable to contain himself, Robb takes her by the waist and spins her around. She ought not to be sad. Her laughter rings out before long. When he puts her down both of them are breathless.

"I love you," she tells him on the heel of a deep breath.

"And I love you," he offers in reply. They share a sweetly agonising kiss, a mark of departure and longing. How strange that one can miss a person standing right in front of them.

But he must leave. They cannot be caught. Robb pulls away. He makes his way to the door, glancing one last time over his shoulder to the morose girl on the bed. Daenerys forces a smile to her lips for his benefit and Robb tries to tell her with just a look that all shall be fine.

In the courtyard the party has already assembles. The Queen is speaking to his mother, a small smile on her face. His father is holding a rather serious looking conversation with the King, but it doesn't seem an unpleasant affair, as both men look relaxed. That in itself is a strange sight, for the mood has been particularly tense of late.

"Where have you been?" Arya snaps at him when he reaches her and Sansa. She gives a look of displeasure towards her older sister. "I had to listen to her speaking about Willas Tyrell again."

Since the Tyrell heir has spoken to their father and to Sansa, his oldest sister has been in some private heaven of hers that features girlish dreams which Robb doesn't care to hear. At least not from Sansa. He holds his hands up apologetically towards Arya though. "I thought you were with the twins."

Arya shakes her head and pouts. "Aeron keeps trailing after Alysanna and her new ladies-in-waiting and Rhaegon can't fight. I was promised another chance to knock Aeron into the ground."

While his sister is quite deft with her Needle, Aeron Targaryen loses to her because he wishes to. Robb chooses not to tell her that though, as he's been told, and not only by his father, that Arya shall receive proper training. Soon enough she'll be knocking Bran to the ground. That should please her well enough.

After the last of words are exchanged, Robb rides next to his father. It as at his father's request that he does so, of course. Otherwise it would have been his mother in that place. Eddard Stark looks at him with an unsettling gazed. "You have been absent of late, my son. Is there something you would say to me?"

His lips move, but Robb finds he cannot speak the words. Instead he lowers his gaze for a brief moment. "Why must we return, father?" he finally asks.

Ned sighs. "Your grandfather has written. 'Tis time for the Starks to see to their own." The answer is as simple as it is complicated. Robb can hear in his father's voice both worry and resignation. Wearily he looks up. Ned continues, "Our duty awaits us. Never forget, winter is coming."

At that Robb's face scrunches slightly. Winter would do well to come faster. I understand, father," he says nonetheless, for Ned's eyes are on his and he cannot fathom ever disagreeing with this man. Later, Robb promises to himself, he will broach the subject his heart longs to discuss. For the time being, he must see to duty. Involuntarily, his eyes travel to his mother, who had fallen into pace with Sansa and Arya. A small smile touches his lips at the thoughts flittering through his mind. He should probably work on convincing his mother first. After all, his parents are close in the counsel of one another and there is no ally he needs more at this point.

All is quite and peaceful until Sansa lets out a shriek Robb turns towards the sound startled, expecting something to have happened. What he sees is a most amusing scene, and very familiar, of Arya having kicked mud onto Sansa's gown. Red-faced the older of the two leans over to pinch her sister, but all that accomplishes is a small hit to the head as Arya lifts her knee.

Catelyn Stark chides them but they seem not to be hearing a word. Just when Robb wonders if he ought to step in, his father turns his horse around and canters towards them. What follows is low whispers and chagrined expressions. The two are separated, one placed in the care of her companion, and the other is sent to watch over her younger brothers.

"And no more nonsense," Catelyn warns.

Robb hides his amusement from their eyes.


	44. xliv

Jon wipes the sweat away and lets out a long breath. His eyes shift momentarily towards Margaery, who is perched atop a stack of hay. She rests her chin in her palm and gives him an odd little smile. She confuses him. Females confuse him in general. With Rhaenys, at least, he knows what to expect. Margaery Tyrell is constant in the way she bewilders him.

"Why did you not go for the chest, Your Grace?" she asked over the dim sounds of clanking swords, handing him back the helmet. "You could have made a strike for the heart."

His mysterious partner is waiting for him to be done, already in his preferred stance. "Had I done that, my lady, I would have allowed him a free path to my throat." He smiled at her. "I take it that sword fighting is not among your many pursuits."

Margaery blushed, as if his words hold a double meaning. "My brother is a squire, Tour Grace, what I know, I know from him."

"Does he visit often, your brother – I believe his name is Loras." Again the girl blushes. Jon continues to watch her indulgently. It might be that Alysanna is right and that mother and father do plan for a union between the two of them. Jon considers the thought for a few short moments. It makes sense in his head.

"Aye, Loras," she agrees happily. "Your Grace remembers. He visits at time, though not often. I believe he enjoys squiring more than he does being coddled and cooed at by mother and me."

Inclining his head, Jon gives her one last smile, before returning for a second bout. Jaime Lannister is giving him a strange look, almost as if to ask what words were exchanged. Jon holds back a snort. He needn't explain himself. Holding his sword at the ready, Jon waits for the partner to proceed.

They circle one another, bit neither attacks. The tension growls, a subtle change in the air. Jon's grip tightens on the sword. He pretends the beginning of an assault, but pulls back just as the other brings makes to parry. The stance is good and there is hardly an opening he could use. Jon bites his tongue to keep from sighing. If only he could get his opponent a few steps to the right.

Well, he can try. Jon lunges, his sword sweeping through the air. Metal hits against metal, the force of the crash reverberating through his bones. Jon pulls back and noticing that that his opponent's torso is unprotected, he strikes once more. His partner, though, is both quick and deft, and bigger than Jon besides. Deflecting the hits is not very hard. Jon curses and retreats back a few steps. Pain erupts in his leg. Looking down, he sees a cut running down, blood hissing and bubbling.

Jaime has seen it too and makes to stop the match, but Jon will have none of it. "It is but a flesh wound." He grits his teeth and staggers forward in a succession of quick attacks that leave his opponent breathless. Jon can read it in the way the other moves. If he can summon enough strength, he may be able to overthrow this enemy.

"Your Grace, perhaps it would be wise to stop," comes Margaery's worried voice. "The wound looks like it might need sewing."

For the first time since his arrival, Tyrion volunteers his own thought on any matter. "Best not to put yourself against the lady's wishes, Your Grace." He's a real character that one, Jon thinks, eyes fixing on the dwarf. He does understand why Jaime thought they would get along so well. The quip is not malicious, merely amusing – and quite dangerous, had Jon the mind to be offended.

Alas, such talk is never of much use. Jon graces none of them with a reply, instead goes for his opponent. This is it, he thinks, as the swords come together for one last dance. They twirl, pushing into one another. And then Jon catches his opening. With one strong shove, he send the other backwards. Losing his footing, the opponent falls to the ground, but not before he can make one more swing for Jon. That brings the Prince down too, though to his luck, his knees take the brunt of it.

The exercise has been more than he'd expected. When Jaime brought the hulking person, offering no introduction, but for some half-mumbles words, Jon had no idea what to expect. Climbing to his feet with some difficulty, Jon forces himself to keep a measured pace. The helmet is taken off and allowed to fall to the ground. He holds his hand out. "Well done. What is your name, boy?"

"That's no boy," Jaime calls out. "Lady Brienne, if you would be so kind." And, indeed, when the helmet comes off, Jon can see a face resembling that of a woman's peering back at him from beneath shredded blonde hair.

He cannot help staring for a moment. "That is a fine form, my lady," he says, adding a nod for confirmation. "Had our battle been real, you would have slain me."

Lady Brienne blushes, her whole face going an ungainly shade of red. "Your Grace, I–" She looks ready to fall to her knees and apologise. What a strange creature, the Prince cannot help thinking. Better he makes sure this does not become a scene.

"My lady, perhaps you would be gracious enough to partner me again in a few days," he suggests, watching as relief floods her features.

"What did I tell you, wench?" Jaime cuts in. "He's the best sort, aye?" Brienne murmurs a reply, clearly uncomfortable. Jon takes pity.

"I am not fishing for compliments, Lannister," Jon reminds him almost sullenly. Wench, eh? That sounds interesting.

"Well then, you have to work on keeping your guard up." The reply only manages to elicit a smile from Jon.

"Now that my brother has worked his charm, perhaps you should like to resume our earlier conversation," Tyrion suggests, much to Jon's relief. And everyone else's, he's sure. Margaery looks a bit faint actually. "And we can see to the wound," the dwarf adds when Margaery clasps her hands upon her bosom.

Without saying a word, Margaery pulls a clean handkerchief out. Jon already knows what she wants to do. Should be allow it? Wide eyes do not leave his face as she advances.

In the end, he simply catches the girl's wrist. "There is no need, my lady." He's aware of Tyrion watching them sharply, attentively. Instead, he offers Margaery his arm. Her hand falls to her side and she follows the silent command.

Tyrion had already started debating with him the claim of Rhaenyra Targaryen to the Iron Throne. This had the possibility of going on forever, but Jon is quite fascinated at this point.


	45. xlv

There is something like amusement shining in the Queen's eyes and Margaery doesn't know what to make of it. She continues to sit and stare at the older female with a vague sense of confusion that cannot be displaced. One should think the Queen had, up until this point, assumed a manner which can be understood.

"Your Majesty, was it wrong of me?" she questions, half scared of the answer Lyanna Stark might give her.

Frankly, she does not quite remember the Queen. Her parents have told her that as a little girl she would trail after the then young Lyanna. Of course, she had not been a queen then. It was at that time that the king fought his father for the throne. Still, her parents insist that a sort of bond had emerged from their close proximity. More than once, Margaery had been told that her model ought to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

While as a child she hadn't understood all that well, as a young maiden, she could certainly see the appeal of it. The Queen is charming and witty, graceful in a subdued sort of manner and quite powerful for all that she hides well in the shadow of the throne. It is that power which her sire pushed her towards and it is the warmth that Margaery clings to.

The smile on Lyanna's face widens just a smidge. "You have not done anything wrong," she says. "And yet you worry. Why do you worry?" A thoughtful expression crosses her face at this point. There is something almost tender about the way her gaze lowers to Margaery's. "Is it one of the young noblemen?"

Blushing, Margaery considers her answer for a short moment. "Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but how does one answer such a question."

"However one feels they must," Lyanna offers with a small shrug. "Now, tell me what my son has done. That boy, may the gods keep him, may have his father's wisdom in matters of the state, but in all else he is yet a child."

"My grandmother says the same thing," Margaery finds herself admitting. "She says all men are like that, children, unless the right woman is with them."

"Your grandmother is a wise woman. Olenna Redwyne, is I recall." The Queen loses herself in a moment of memory and Margaery shifts into her seat once more. It is very difficult to just sit and listen when she is filled with questions and desirous of answers. "A woman will know which man she completes. And if that is her goal, to complete, to guide and grow together, then she will have a joyful marriage."

This is wisdom of another kind. Margaery can hear the warning beneath the words and she shudders lightly at the implications. "Is that what makes a good marriage, Your Majesty?"

"Among other things, aye. From one woman to another, little Margaery, what do you hope to change?" The question slides between them like a snake slithering through the grass. The answer is not demanded, yet the expectancy of it is there. This is a test of sorts.

Margaery allows her eyes to pursue the carpet on the ground as if it were the most interesting object in the room, striving to buy herself some time. She searches in her mind for the right words. There must be something she can say to this. The key lies within her. Margaery bites her lip gently, eyes closing. She is so close to finding it, she just knows. A few more moments and she will have the answer.

Looking up, she smiles lightly. "I plan to change nothing, Your Majesty, as chance is not planned in such matters. It must come on its own. It must be a choice." She knows she is right when the Queen nods her head and takes her hand. Margaery continues, "He shies away from the gentles of contacts, Your Majesty, and I do not know what to do."

Of course, she says nothing about Rhaenys Dayne. Margaery is sure that the Queen already knows, or senses it. Rhaenys Dayne is dangerous, not merely her presence near the Prince, but her very existence. Yet she cannot discuss such a topic with Lyanna Stark. Her bravery can only take her this far. Over its boundary lies folly. And Margaery is no fool, in spite of her youth and shyness. All the best things come to those who know how to go about obtaining them.

"That matter is more or less settled," Lyanna says, her brow furrowing. "Surely you know that by now." The Queen had interfered as little as possible in the affair, Margaery knows. "The choice, you know, is not mine. His Majesty is the one who decrees."

"His Majesty values the opinions of his Queen," Margaery counters. After all, this is an invitation on Lyanna's part. The truth is a blade best wielded with care. It might cut both ways. "If I wished fort assurance it would have been my parents I would have rushed to. Nay, I mean to have advice, Your Majesty."

"What is it that you seek?" The question was both simple and complicated. Margaery took a moment to contemplate it.

"I seek no more and no less than happiness. That is what I wish for, Your majesty." The answers seems to please. The truth had worked in her favour, Margaery thinks with a small grin of her own. "Can that be found here?"

"Bits and pieces of it." The admission plants a seed of curiosity into the younger female's mind. Mind you, happiness is not to be chased. 'Tis no wild horse you are after. Happiness is not found or grabbed, it is felt, here," Lyanna's hand travelled to her heart, "and here," then to her head. "In the end only you yourself are capable of knowing where your happiness lies, in this place or elsewhere. 'Tis the way of our world, this one is."

They remain is silence for a few moments, looking at one another. A sort of understanding has been reached. Margaery knows that she has found her advice and it is sound. What to make of it, she knows not yet. But the Seven will provide the answer at the right moment, that she does not doubt. In the meantime, she must determine what the answer to her question is. Her happiness, where to find it? With whom she may find it.

"Your Majesty is kind and I am very grateful," she says when there is no longer anything to say between them on this matter. "I shall see myself back to my own rooms, if Your Majesty permits."

"That would be for the best," the Queen nods, an understanding expression on her face. "Is your brother still here?"

"Willas?" Another nod answers her. "He is. He sits with Lady Dayne."


	46. xlvi

"A tourney?" Jon questions, eyes widening momentarily. "What is there to celebrate, father?"

Rhaegar smiles. "Alysanna's nameday for one," he replies, the cane thumping a couple of times into the ceramic tiles. "And your knighting. Thus shall be the first time you joust." His son makes a sound caught between surprise and disbelief. "That would be the official reason," Rhaegar continues. "There is, however, something else which I hope to achieve."

His son straightens and looks at him with a too-serious gaze. There is something of Lyanna in that expression. The father nods indulgently, pushing Jon towards a guess. "The Greyjoys, they wish to dispute their claim over some land." And therein lays the crux of the matter. "A tourney is but a temporary solution," Jon points out.

The Ironborn are best kept at a distance. They are rather savage and desirous of chaos and destruction. Peace is already difficult enough to maintain. "As you say, my son. We cannot trust them to hold the peace, yet for now we must delay them to the best of our abilities." There is something dangerous about those people. "We shall speak of this at a later time. I've another reason to call you here."

"I thought as much." Jon waits patently for him to leave his chair and follows after Rhaegar as he leads them both into another room. "Is this about Lady Margaery, father?" Rhaegar only senses curiosity in his son's voice, but how could he possible tell what thought are running through the boy's mind.

"Aye, Lady Margaery. A King needs allies if he is to have a successful rule. Strong, capable men and women who can propel him forward and make sure he remains in a position of power." Jon is nodding along. This conversation is not wholly unfamiliar to him. "And for those allies, he must pay a price."

"The Reach has wealth and they are loyal." The Prince seems to have already given some thought to the matter. "Furthermore, House Tyrell is one of our strongest supporters." Rhaegar continues to stare at his son, waiting for the answer to the unasked question.

Margaery Tyrell is a good match. The girl is sweet and sensible and this alliance would ensure that the Tyrells are bound to the throne. Jon is a man grown, it is time that he takes on his shoulders his own share of responsibilities. And hopefully, when the day comes for him to take the throne, he will have formed himself a compact circle of devoted followers.

As if sensing there is not much more to say, Jon bites his lower lip. He is aware of the permanency of his decision. Perhaps that is what has his so fidgety. It is positively frightening how one word can seal one's fate. Yet the time to make a decision has come. They cannot delay any longer. So scared or not, Jon will have to speak.

"Lady Margaery would make a good wife." There is something about the tone of his voice, Rhaegar thinking. He is not entirely sure how he is supposed to interpret it. Yet the acceptance had been given and that is what matters.

A sudden image of Viserys flashes in his mind and for one long moment, Rhaegar is tempted to halt the plan altogether. But then his better notions put an end to that. Good intentions are only good when they yield something of the same nature. Jon will be King, and kings for all their power are not always allowed to do as they would wish. "Very well, my son. We shall speak to Lady Margaery's father."

"I would prefer to speak to Lady Margaery myself, father, if it please you. It is only right that she know from me." The steely colour in his son's eyes grows darker, a sign of conviction is Rhaegar has ever seen one. He nods his head by way of reply.

"Margaery Tyrell is a good match," the King reaffirms. "I trust your mother's judgement, you know that, and she is of a mind with me."

Jon gives a small smile. "Mother is always willing to believe the best of people." That is somewhat true. While Lyanna is not gullible, she can, at times, seem inclined towards that characteristic, for she seldom seems to mistrust anyone.

It is, of course, a mistake. Lyanna is a good judge of character. But she has also learned that it is best not to show one's feelings before strangers, for it is possible that they may be used against you. It is politics after all and not unexpected at all. "And she is right. In this life we have need of all sorts of people; the good and the bad. It is not ideal, but it is the way things are."

Rather sad if one thinks on it too long, yet Rhaegar has long grown used to it. A king must rule, just as a knight must fight and as peasants must work the land. This is the order and the hierarchy. It does little good to shun it, for the human being ultimately lives in the world, surrounded by others.

"I've heard that Aeron is to leave," Jon says, breaking Rhaegar out of his thoughts. "And with Lord Baratheon too. What does mother have to say about that?" Mischief sparkles in his son's eyes. Rhaegar merely laughs. "Oh come, father, did she not fight you on the decision at all?"

"Your mother would have had all of you sent to Winterfell to squire if she could," he finally answers. "But she does know the value of allies. I shan't lie, she is not happy about Aeron leaving, but she has accepted it."

"And what did she ask for in return?" Now that is a more interesting point. "She wants Alysanna to learn how to tilt, doesn't she?"

"Among many other wishes, aye, that is one of them. But she merely asked that I find an instructor for Rhaegon." At this Jon's face becomes serious. Rhaegon's lack of sight means that most people are reluctant to put a weapon in his hands.

"Is there such a person?" The question hangs between them, heavy, curious and expectant.

"The issue has been solved. I have recently received a letter from a merchant whose service is rather valuable." Rhaegar searches for the letter. It is easy to find. He hands the parchment to Jon. "This knowledge must not leave the room, but I have decided to accept his terms." Jon is reading the letter carefully, his eyes widening. "What do you think of it?"

"Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos," Jon reads out loud the signature at the bottom of the page. "How do we know he speaks the truth?"

"We have our ways," Rhaegar answers. "Well?"

"It shall be a very interesting experience." Jon hands him back the letter.


	47. xlvii

"You're looking rather pale," Viserys observes, gently pushing his younger sister into a chair. "Are you feeling unwell?" He touches a finger to her wan skin. There are dark circles under her eyes and her lips are cracked and bloody. It makes him wonder if she has been gnawing on them all night long. Daenerys stares ahead with vacant eyes. "Daenerys."

"What is it?" she snaps. Her lower lip starts trembling. "What is it, Viserys?" she questions once more, this time subdued. There is something about her countenance which rankles. Viserys lowers himself on his knees in order to be bale to meet her eyes. She keeps her gaze away from his to the best of her abilities.

"What are you hiding?" The question is spoken in a low voice, as if it is a secret to be shared between the two of them. In a way it is. But perhaps this one won't remain just between them. It might be necessary to bring in their brother. That is what Viserys fears. "You can tell me. I only wish to help."

"How could you possible help me?" Daenerys bursts into tears, covering her face with both hands. The sobs shake her whole frame. Viserys raises enough to envelop her in his arms. She won't tell him anything until she has calmed down a bit. A flood of tears rains down on his shoulder, soaking through the cloth and wetting his skin. Viserys breaths in deeply and waits. There is little to do but wait.

And waiting is what he is good at, after all. He has been waiting his whole life more or less. First it had been his mother, then Lyanna and now Danny. He keeps waiting for something to happen, to shake him awake or take him away. But so far lady luck has been avoiding him. Only trouble seems to walk his way and the greatest of them all is his wife. Arianne is if not angry, then bored and if not happy and lustful. There is nothing resembling tenderness in her and Viserys finds that the more time he spends with her the more bitter this marriage makes him. And yet a marriage it is. The Father himself couldn't set him free of it.

Arianne was no maiden when she'd come to him and Viserys is not enough of a fool to think he might use that against her. Dornish is as Dornish does after all and none can say that Arianne Martell is not Dornish. Clenching his teeth against an ugly thought that has reared its head, Viserys tries to hold onto his composure. At this very moment his anger is not needed. His sister is suffering and he plans to find out why and righten the situation if it can be done.

By now, Daenerys had quietened down enough for a conversation to ensue. Viserys lets her go and sits in a chair opposite hers. "Well, my dear sister, tell me what ails you." Daenerys flinches slight and her hands fold primly in her lap. She is not a maiden of quietness and decorum. The very fact that she sits so still before him spells trouble. This silence no good sign. "Daenerys, tell me, now."

"I am bleeding." The words make him pause. Viserys looks her up and down, trying to determine if an injury had escaped his notice. And then the meaning becomes clear to him. Flushing, he shakes his head in aggravation. "I swear that you could drive the gentles, meekest man to exasperation. Lyanna will help you with that or even one of your ladies."

"It's not that kind of blood," his sister protests and the desperation on her face jolts him out of his seat. "It hurts so much. And it won't stop." Her eyes fill with tears again. "I never thought it would be this bad."

"You never though what could be this bad?" His mouth is suddenly too dry, his tongue thick in his mouth. Viserys stumbles clumsily over his words. "Gods be good." There are so few explanations for the condition she is describing and all the ones that do not worry him have been described. "Four moon turns, is it not?" 'Tis barely visible on her, but mayhap she has been letting the dresses out.

"Almost five," comes the whispered answer. A keening sound leaves her lips and Viserys then notices that small drops of blood dot the ground. If Daenerys looks down now she will only panic.

"I'll take you back to your chamber and we'll call the maesters," he tells her, leaning in to pick her up. "They might give you milk of the poppy or willow bark." The pain must be intense, for she barely manages to reply. Viserys takes pity on her and stops any further conversation.

Hoping that none of the servants understand what is happening, Viserys sets off at a quick pace, calling out to the first person he sees, "Summon a maester to my sister's room and tell His Majesty of it."

Daenerys murmurs something that sounds like the start of a protest, a plea for confidentiality, but they both know that can't be. "Nay, sister. Rhaegar will understand." Or at least Viserys hopes so. The King is a fair man and in normal circumstances he can be counted on to be merciful. But this is no normal circumstance. "There now," she says when they reach the door that leads into her chamber. The door is opened by one of Daenery's ladies.

They are like a flock of hens, petering about and flapping their wings without doing anything necessary. Viserys scowled at them and orders them out. None of them is to set foot in. Their incompetence makes his blood boil.

When the master finally arrives, Viserys knows he can no longer stay. Rhaegar waits for him outside the chamber. Viserys looks his brother in the eyes. How does he go about telling him?

"Daenerys, she–" The rest of the words refuse to come out and Viserys finds his mouth is moving in soundless whispers. If it were anything else, he would have had an easier time of it. But this is something that not even his wildest dream could conjure.

"Is there a child?" In that question Viserys recognises the King. Before him stands not his brother, but the ruler of the realm. And the answer that forms on his lips may doom his sister. Viserys hesitates. Rhaegar sighs. "Is there a child, Viserys?"

"There was," he is forced to admit after a few moments on uncomfortable silence in which only ghosts of sobs may be heard.

"Seven hells." The imprecation rings loud in the quiet hall, though Rhaegar's voice is nowhere near above a harsh whisper.

Frozen in his place, Viserys can do little but stare before him. The problems will not ever stop coming it seems.


	48. xlviii

The North is cold and harsh and everything the stories say it is. Beric pulls his cloak tighter around him in an attempt to keep the warmth from leaving him. But it's no use. Winter has settled deep within the bones of this place and even the faintest trace of warmth is fleeting in the face of such.

The Black Brother assigned to guard this high up on the Wall barely looks at the King's man. He stares with haunted eyes at the endless sea of snow that spreads out before them. He is one of those who claim to have encountered the walking dead. The man has lost an ear apparently. The battle, he'd claimed, had been fierce, for those creatures were a hardy lot. Beric is almost certain 'tis the fever talking. The man is drawn and pale, he shouldn't even be up here. But the Night's Watch has so few men that even the ailing are not spared. Cruel is this land and its people, a cruelty which is best understood only among themselves; a necessary weapon as it were. One cannot hope to survive in the realm of frost without cruelty; it is as vital as air.

He feels atop of the whole world, standing on the ice wall that separates two worlds. Beric shifts slightly, careful of the edge. Should he slip and fall over, there'll be nothing left of him to bury. And he does not plan to die here and be burned. He has something to live for.

"My lord," Benjen Stark calls out from being him, almost startling him, and Beric looks over his shoulder. "We should leave now."

Indeed, they should, Beric thinks, glancing up towards the sky. The sun is shining, though its light is pale and weak. Still, it shall be dark soon. Very soon. In the North it is the night one should fear, Benjen has said to him on the way to the Wall. There are so many stories he's heard and all of them should scare any vertebrate into a perpetual catatonic state. But they are only tales, myths, stories old women tell before the fire to scare the little children. It's been a long time since Beric was a child, though, and stories have stopped scaring him.

"Is everything ready then?" he offered by way of reply.

"Aye, provisions and men have been accounted for. The only thing left to do is open those gates and go beyond the Wall." There is something vaguely alarming about leaving the relative safety of the Wall. The feeling is perpetrated by the skittishness of these supposedly brave men defending them all. Beric nods his head and the matter is settled.

From there on it is only a little while until they are riding on horseback out the gates and into the blanket of snow. A weak breeze pushes against them as they ride forward, lashing against their skin, whipping and scratching. Snowflakes no longer fall as they've done when they first arrived.

Beneath them hooves of the horses the snow crunches. A few paces behind him, a few men are exchanging japes, speaking of the thin blood of the Southrons. Beric can hear his men reply and he laugh, because these things are neither here nor there. Blood is the same for every man and it flows through the veins of all.

Their pace is good and they make much progress, though not as much as the Old Bear would like. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch is one Jeor Mormont who had for some unknown reason entered the rank of the Watch, leaving the rule of his house to his son, Jorah, who is by all accounts not at all successful. The Bear Isles have lost a good leader.

But the time for thoughts is past. They have entered the thicker part of the woods and the branches crack under the weight of snow, bowing towards the ground. The dead boughs touch their heads, a kiss, a condemnation, a warning, no doubt.

Dolorous Edd, a man with a dry and pessimistic humour, is telling a story of an abandoned Wildling village, from where all people had seemingly vanished into the night. It is not the story itself that has a seed of humour in it, but the way the man tells it stirs within all hearts a smile, a stretch of lips. The human mind is dark indeed to conceive such thoughts. Yet it is what it is and there is nothing to be done of it.

Light is leaving them fast, bleeding through the trees and over the glimmering snow, the stench of danger filling their nostrils. Tension builds, glaring and crushing in its manner as strange sounds sound out all around them. The Black Brothers draw their swords and torches are lit though the last glimmer of sunlight is not yet gone.

"Fire is our most effective weapon against anything that lies beyond," Commander Mormont speaks. His mere words seem to soothe the fears of his men. He gives them courage. A man should die with courage.

Beric draws his own sword out and behind their party the last light leaves them. With darkness comes fear and fear breeds chaos. Chaos is the death of success.

At first it is merely sounds as they make camp. The men of the Watch claim that those should be ignored. "It might be Wildlings. It might be squirrels. It might just be the wind," Dolorous Edd says softly. "If they don't engage we keep to ourselves." What goes unsaid is that these wild men do not engage usually. They fear the sharp steel of the men they should face. Unless they are in great number they shan't launch an attack.

"Benjen Stark has said they've amassed into an army of sorts," Beric points out. That he does not like the sound of. A few men are easily crushed even without good weaponry. However an entire army of Wildlings will not fall even to the sharpness of knights' swords.

"Aye, but they are yet a long way off. They have children and women with them." Edd spits onto the snow. "I doubt they'll even make it to the Wall. The dead, you know, and the cold ones."

"Wives tales," Beric protests.

"That what they all say until they see with their own eyes." The man shrugs as it makes no difference to him whether the knight believes him or not. Beric merely shakes his head. The cold must have addled their brains.

With a long sign the knight stands to his feet. He walks away from the firelight, behind a line of trees, to make water.

The only warning is the sound of snapping bones. Beric turns around with a start in time to see a legless creature that had once been human crawling to him.

The horn rings out into the night.


	49. xlix

Alysanna clutches the dragon egg closer to her chest and takes a step back in fright. She hadn’t meant to make such a discovery. The small creature had been wrapped in linen, cocooned, bound. But the shape is telling. What is even more frightening is that Rhaegon stops right before it.

When her brother woke her up in the middle of the night, Alysanna supposed it was one of his nightmares. But this is not nightmare. This is real. “Rhaegon, mayhap we should go back.” If Maester Pycelle finds them here, they will be in trouble.

Rhaegon, however, seem frozen in place. Alysanna makes to garb his arm, but he shakes her hold off. “This is one. We need two more.” A rat darts past their feet, squealing as it goes. Alysanna nearly shrieks. Her brother is in some strange trance that she cannot seem to break.

Usually, with Rhaegon one feels at ease, despite his affliction, but now all she can do is shiver. He came to her room, woke her up, demanded that she take her dragon egg and come with him. Alysanna listens because she trusts him. But this is by far the strangest of their adventures.

“What more do we need? Rhaegon, this is truly frightening.” Visions Alysanna had no problems with, she has discussed some of her brother’s strangest dreams with him. Yet the profound eerie aura that surrounds him at the moment rather reminds her of one of those Northern tales mother sometimes tells them. Alas, Lyanna is not here to hold her daughter’s hand. Rhaegon had turned towards one of the many shelves as if he could actually see what’s on them.

“Is there anything dead there?” he asks.

Alysanna startles and with a sound of mild disgust peruses the strange collection resting before her eyes. “Dead? Do you mean like one of those stuffed rabbits?”

“Nay, something that had been preserved.” This once again prompts a vaguely distressed huff from the Princess. Nonetheless, she continues to look. “Anything will do.”

Fortunately, she sees a rat in a jar of glass. Alysanna hands the egg to her brother and climbs atop a chair to reach the desired object. Within moments she has it in her grasp. Turning back towards Rhaegon, she takes the egg from him. “I am not carrying the other one.”

With a nod, Rhaegon, takes the small bundle in his arms. Alysanna looks away. The smell is truly horrible. She can’t understand why they haven’t burned it. Yet Rhaegon claims they have need of it. With a heavy sigh, Alysanna lifts the torch higher and allows Rhaegon to place a hand on her shoulder. Convincing herself not to look back is a trial.

It is complete, utter madness to even contemplate what they have set to doing. If this becomes a miniature version of the tragedy at Summerhall, they should consider themselves lucky. Such thought occupy the forefront of her mind as they make their way into the garden, under the tall oak tree.

Aeron is already waiting for them there. He holds his dagger in one hand, and with the other he secures a dead chicken. Alysanna would laugh if she didn’t find the whole business a tragedy of sorts. Then again, this plan belongs to Rhaegon. It was Rhaegon who knew where to find the egg, so naturally it must be him who knows how to hatch it.

“What do we do now?” Aeron asks without preamble. He looks like a frightened babe in the woods. But Alysanna won’t tease him about it, for her own face must look the same. Only Rhaegon is completely calm.

“Now we build a pyre.” They work after very strict instructions. It is, indeed, curious that Rhaegon can give such a detailed account of what he wants them to build, given that he cannot see. In the end, they manage to create a miniature version of it, built out of twigs and small dried branches.

Breaking the jar, Alysanna picks up the rat as Aeron is placing his offering on the pyre. The rat joins the chicken, and the only thing that remains is the bundle in Rhaegon’s arms. They peel back the linen and gasp at the sight of the deformed creature. It almost looks human – the shape suggests humanity – but it is barely formed, small and ugly. Nonetheless, it joins the other offerings.

They lit the wood on fire using one of the torches. The sight is gruesome and disquieting. Flesh blackens and curls under the ardent touch of the flames. Alysanna hugs the egg to her chest and looks at Rhaegon, searching for some explanation.

Her brother’s head is turned towards her, sightless gaze fixed on her face. “Do you trust me?” 

“With my life,” she replies automatically. There is never any use to think about such matters. One either trusts another person or they don’t.

“Make a small cut in the centre of your palm, make sure blood is flowing out. With that hand push the egg into the flames.” Alysanna remains stunned. “Whatever you do, do not take your hand out of the fire.”

She doesn’t want to do it, Alysanna realises when Aeron gives her his knife. But something is calling out to her. Alysanna places the blade on the skin of her palm and pushes down. Once she removes the weapon, blood erupts from the wound; it bubbles and hisses. Following her brother’s words exactly, she holds the dragon egg in one hand and kneels.

One deep breath later, her hand is in the fire and her eyes are scrunched shut. Pain does not assault her. Flames do not eat her flesh away. Something warm however is dripping on her hand. She opens her eyes and sees drops of blood landing on her skin. Aeron and Rhaegon have make cuts on their own palms.

“Blood and fire. The answer was in front of us all this time.” For a brief moment Alysanna does not understand his meaning. And then she does, and it is all horrible and wondrous at the same time.

The scales on the egg have grown so very warm, that Alysanna knows her skin should have smarted with it. Yet it doesn’t. But the heat grows and grows and the flames finally catch the sleeve of her dress. Aeron is the first to fall back, pulling Rhaegon with him. Alysanna closes her eyes. Perhaps it does not hurt because she has already died. Something cracks underneath her palm. Harsh scales give way and with the sound of crackling wood the though shell crumbles apart.

A heavy sheet of water drops upon her out of nowhere and she barely manages to shield the small one.

Croaking and screeching makes her open her eyes after a few moments. Aeron stands staring, slack-jawed at her. His lips move, but no words come.

“Dragon,” Rhaegon says.

Alysanna looks down at what she cradles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you didn't see this one coming.


	50. l

Sansa scrunches her eyes shut and tries to hold in her tears. She worries the carefully embroidered handkerchief in her hands and takes a deep breath. She can do this, she knows she can. All she needs to do is knock on the door and enter the room. Her hand rises up, fingers curled in a loose fist. Now all she must do is bring it down in a series of small knocks.

"Are you going to do this, or will we just stand here until the next long night comes?" Arya asks, somewhat caustically. She has not been herself at all. No matter, Sansa thinks, none of them has been at ease anyhow. It is this sickness that has enveloped the whole keep.

However, that does not mean she will accept Arya's disrespect. Sansa catches her sister by the braid and gives a tug, "Do not speak to me like that, horse face." Her need for vindication assuaged, Sansa gives a small snort before knocking gently on the door.

Undoubtedly both of them can hear Maester Luiwn moving around the room. The whole world seems to slow down as they wait for the door to open. But when it does, the sight is almost too much to bear. Sansa has half a mind to sent Arya back to her sticks and dancing masters. Alas, she cannot.

"What are you doing here, children?" the old maester asks, purring himself in their way. "You know you mustn't enter this room."

"I must see grandfather," Sansa insists, using her best imitation of her mother's voice. Catelyn Tully Stark is a force to be reckoned with and if she can manage at least a fraction of her conviction, she might get her way. "I insist, master," she continues as if the scepticism on his face doesn't make her stomach twist in knots.

"Very well then," he says. Sansa passes past him, but when Arya makes to do so too, he again refuses her entrance. "As for you, child, I believe you are to start lessons." He takes Arya by the shoulder and leads her away. Sansa merely gives her younger sister a small nod, as if to say she shall be fine. Arya makes a show of protesting but in the end complies, as there is little she can do.

A cough rings out in the darkness. Sansa steels herself against the horror of knowledge. "Grandfather," she calls out, nearing the sickbed with careful steps.

When they'd returned, Rickard Stark had been fine, perhaps fatigued and a little pale, but fine nonetheless. Or at least he had seemed so. That is until he told them he'd been labouring under a grave sickness which had no cure. It is only then that they started observing and piecing together all the signs they have missed. This is unfair, Sansa considers. It is unfair of the gods to place such a burden on his shoulder. He is a good man and good men shouldn't suffer. They should have hope at least; the songs talk of hope.

"Grandfather, it is Sansa," she tells him, leaning over his prone form. The man coughs again, blood and spittle dribbling down his cheek. Nauseated, Sansa takes a step back, a hand covering her mouth. She is so very close to bringing up her latest meal. But somehow, she regains enough sense to search for the cloth the maester uses to clean the lord with.

She wipes away whatever is in sight. "I must speak to you, grandfather, so I beg you to open your eyes." She must try, even if he does not respond, she must try.

Eyes open suddenly and Sansa gives a small shriek. Rickard's lips move, but she cannot hear what he says. She leans in closer. "Water. Give me. Water."

Picking up the small flask on the table, Sansa sniffs at it. It seems fine, she tells herself. With a gentle hand she guides the flask to her grandfather's lips and helps him drink. Once she makes sure he is comfortable, Sansa sits down in a chair by his bedside. She presses her handkerchief in one of his hands.

"I have made it for you." She cannot tell if he understands as his eyes stare distantly ahead. "What I wished to tell you is that I worry, grandfather. I worry for us all if you do not recover. I think my brother has done something."

In truth, she knows that Robb had done something. But she doesn't know what. "It is his heart that makes him sour, I think. He is not himself at all. Ever since we left King's Landing he has been growing more and more morose." And since wherever there is trouble there must be a Stark, Sansa is quite hard-pressed to find answers. "Grandfather, you are the only one who can keep him in line."

All of her courage flees after this confession. She has said enough. If duty were ever enough to cure a man, then she has done her part by reminding the man of his duty and she must hope and pray it is enough. Whatever Robb has done – and her heart tells her he has done something – it is an important matter that will bear consequences with them all.

Leaving is easier than coming in. Sansa finds her way back to her room where Jeyne is sitting by the window and knitting something. It is perhaps a present for her father. Jeyne can be rather sweet when she wants to be and she almost always does when her father is involved.

"Did you see him?" her companion asks. "Is he better?"

A nod followed by a shake of her heed in Sansa's reply. At the confusion on Jeyne's face she sighs. "I've seen him, aye. He is not at all better. He is worse, in fact. How can a man falls so fast into the arms of the Stranger?"

"Oh, Sansa, I am so very sorry. The maester says he's been ill for a very long time." Jeyne looks down at her work.

"How could we not notice?" They have been gone, that is true and mayhap that has helped grandfather mask his illness, but surely, they should have seen it long ago. Another sigh leaves her lips. "Jeyne, I do not want him to die."

"He shan't. Lord Stark is a strong man. Just look at Walder Frey, he is as old as the Trident and still gong strong. Lord Stark will recover, just you wait and see." Jeyne nods her had after, as if to strengthen her point.

Smiling at the conviction her friend shows, Sansa sits down by her. All this talk has made her spirits sink. She needs another subject. Thankfully, Jeyne seems well-prepared today. "Have you seen the new roses, Sansa? The blue ones. The Queen's favourite flowers, aren't they?"

"Winter has come it would seem," Sansa offers by way of reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And so ends the second part of this series. I hope you've enjoyed it, everyone. If you do have the time, drop a line. In return, I promise to start working on the third installment as soon as I can (which I hope will be soon).
> 
> In the meantime, if anyone has any questions, requests, something they would like to tell me, feel free to do so.
> 
> Thank you to all my readers and reviewers, you guys are great, and I hope to see your familiar names in my mail inbox for the continuation of the series too. :)


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